


glass figures

by AHermioneH



Category: Marvel, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Be Nice to Clint Barton, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Gen, I forgot that Will Solace was in this for a tiny bit, Like, Nat is honestly so suspicious, Not graphic depictions of violence, POV First Person, Phil Coulson: Ace Recruiter, Pre-Canon, Year by year, but also like possibly, clint is so young, demigod powers kick in in their twenties, i dont know, i think, percy literally shows up to mess with MCU canon, the timeline is screwed to hell, there's a character that can be laura barton if you want her to be, vaguely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-05-18 14:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHermioneH/pseuds/AHermioneH
Summary: I lifted my gun, pointing it towards the minefield of shattered fragments, and kicked the small coffee table out of the way.Only to stare down at an awfully familiar face, which split into a somewhat lopsided grin. The intruder raised his hands in a mocking surrender. “Long time no see, dude.”I lowered the gun. “What the hell are you doing in South Peru?”Or in which Clint Barton and Percy Jackson have a long personal history that starts in high school.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for clicking on this mess. 
> 
> So timelines:  
> \- The Avengers is booted into the future by quite a few years and Clint is younger than he is in MCU canon  
> \- Demigod powers only emerge in adulthood in this 'verse  
> \- It will eventually catch up with MCU canon and the majority of PJO
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy, the prologue's really short, but the rest of it isn't

 

**\- 2022**

 

 

The hotel room was thin-walled and dingy, the slightly squeaky and rusted fan in the corner succeeding only in pushing the hot, stuffy air around a bit. I sighed deeply, pushing lungfuls of air into the room. 

 

I’m not a fan of missions like these, with horrid environments and stupid, creepy, slightly derelict locations. They make me jumpy. 

 

I heard a distant thud and the tinkling sound of breaking glass and was spinning to press my back against the wall before I’d even strung two thoughts together about what it could mean. 

 

There was a second crash, louder this time. 

 

As a figure fell straight through the window into the room with a muffled curse. 

 

I lifted my gun, pointing it towards the minefield of shattered fragments, and kicked the small coffee table out of the way. 

 

Only to stare down at an awfully familiar face, which split into a somewhat lopsided grin. The intruder raised his hands in a mocking surrender. “Long time no see, dude.”

 

I lowered the gun. “What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing in South Peru?” 

 


	2. 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first year of high school.

**\- 2011**

 

School sucks.

 

New schools suck more.

 

So naturally, I was feeling for the poor kid walking slowly through the cafeteria trying to find a seat at the ever crowded tables. The uncertain set to his stride proved that he was new here. I elbowed Jake down into the seats further along so that there was enough space for the guy.

 

Jake threw down (the remaining quarter of) his burger. “What?” he hissed. After staring into my glare for a few seconds, he finally shuffled his tray along the bench, muttering something that sounded like ‘jerk’. “Fine. I’ll be nice to the new kid.”

 

We both turned to look at the boy that had sat down at the end of our lunch table. His battered leather jacket was covered in pins: some of arrows, some of bands that even I’d never heard of in my life. His purple t-shirt beneath it had a faded logo for some sort of circus - I assumed that was what it was, anyway, as it looked a bit like a big top. It was so faded I could hardly tell. His jeans were ripped in a way that didn’t look intentional.

 

“Hey, I’m Percy.” I held out my hand for him to shake, but just received a blank stare. Okay, that was rude. “You gonna tell me your name or shake my hand or anything?”

 

The boy almost seemed to flinch at the harsher tone to my voice before the mask went back up and he lifted his chin slightly. He took the still-awkwardly proffered hand and shook it limply. “Clint.”

 

Okay, so not the talkative type. I nudged Jake in a prompt for him to actually talk to the guy. He blinked up at me from the remaining few bites of his burger. He made an unintelligible sound, mouth full, before swallowing loudly. “Uh, hi? I’m Jake.”

 

Clint nodded before stabbing his fork rather loudly into the potatoey thing on his tray, eyes flicking up to his to acknowledge that he’d heard him. When he spoke again, his voice sounded oddly raspy, like he didn’t speak often. “What the hell even is this?”

 

Jake snorted through the last crumbs of his burger bun. God, he was disgusting. “No one even knows. It might kill you. Might not.”

 

Clint looked apprehensively at his meal and poked it again with his fork. “I’m used to living off of some pretty shitty things, but this is one of the worst things I have ever touched, let alone eaten.”

 

I laughed as I ate the cookie my mom had packed for me. “Get used to it.” I waved my cookie in the air. “Or bring your own stuff. I’m not risking getting poisoned by the cafeteria _again_.”

 

Clint grimaced as he took a mouthful of the burger. “ _Again?_ ”

 

Jake leaned away from me. “No, I am not reliving the Great Tuna Incident of ‘09 again.” He gesticulated wildly. “Tell him on your own time.”

 

I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Food poisoning. The tuna was so off that half of the freshmen were off school for a week.”

 

Jake glared in my general direction. “And you.”

 

I sighed. “And me.”

 

Clint laughed, even if I wasn’t convinced it was genuine. Hey, that was good: some sort of smile rather than the resting face that just screamed ‘murder’. Had I not mentioned that before? He had a scary resting face that looked like he was plotting your death. Slowly.

 

He poked at his food again and sighed, taking a mouthful. “Eh. If I die, I die.”

 

Jake leaned backwards. “So, where are you from?”

 

It took Clint a worrying amount of time to answer that question. “Iowa, originally.” He wiped his hand across his mouth and grimaced slightly. “But everywhere really. I mean we’re in New York now,” he snorted and rolled his eyes, “ _of course_ , but that’s only because of the system. Finding somewhere to take a delinquent like me is a lot more difficult than it sounds.” He unconsciously pulled his sleeves down at that. I, being my nosy self, tried to glimpse whatever he was hiding on his arms. Yeah, no clue at all.

 

My eyebrows furrowed, and I pressed him for info. Hey, I was curious. Not everyday someone makes a comment like that.

 

But Clint had clammed up again, and didn’t say another word for the rest of lunch, instead trying to burn a hole through the table with his eyes.

 

So, a great first meeting, then.

 

As we all got up after the bell rang, I pulled him aside. “Look, I know it can be awkward starting at a new school; I’ve done it eight times. Try talking to people. Make a few friends.”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not here to make friends,” he stated flatly, and turned to leave.

 

“Look, if you need help at least come and find me. I’ll either be here, in class or in the pool. Or the principal’s office. Okay, mainly the principal’s office. It’s not difficult to find me. Ask for the black-haired idiot with authority issues and an unhealthy obsession with swimming.” I raised a hand in a way of saying goodbye. “I’ll see ya around, _kid_.”

 

That got a reaction out of him. “I’m not a kid!” he called, stomping out of the cafeteria in his battered sneakers. “I’m a sophomore!”

 

“At five foot three? Not likely!”

 

He poked one hand out of the closing door and gave me a rather impolite single-fingered salute.

 

“Rude.”

 

o0O0o

 

I spotted Clint at the end of the day for the next time, sat on a low wall just outside school. The poor state of his jacket was only accentuated in the outside light. There was a rather sad-looking bald patch on his left shoulder, with a badly stitched-on and now-fraying Captain America patch doing a poor job of hiding it.

 

It was late. Too late for him to be waiting for a lift, anyway. I wondered briefly how long he’d been sitting on that wall, toying with the arrow-shaped pins on his fraying sleeve.

 

My hair was still damp from swim training, so the cool air was making my head feel uncomfortably like an ice cube, but hey.

 

“Hey, Clint!” I called as I wandered down the path towards him.

 

He jumped slightly and turned, the brief flash of alarm fading to mild frustration combined with his regular death stare.

 

“Can you not just, like, leave me alone? I _said_ I didn’t want friends.”

 

I grinned, fully aware that I was annoying him. “Ah, well. ‘Fraid you don’t have a choice in it, now.”

 

He rolled his eyes and turned back to neutral, so his back was to me.

 

I walked around so that I was in front of him. “Hey, it’s rude to turn away when someone’s talking. Didn’t your parents teach you manners?”

 

He snorted. “My parents are dead, so no, and the circus was much more about choosing your special skill, not saying please or thank you.”

 

“Circus? Really, dude?”

 

His stare went from ‘death’ to ‘alien ray instant kill’ level.

 

“Ok. I won’t mention it. Anyway. What the hell are you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?”

 

Clint flicked his eyes up from the arrow pin he was playing with. “No.”

 

“That’s only the last bit of my question.”

 

“I noticed.”

 

I crossed my arms and sighed. “Look, if you don’t have anywhere to go at least come back to my place for a bit. You might not want friends, but at least I have food and some sort of heating system.”

 

“I can’t. I’m expected back in...” he checked the battered watch on his wrist. A lot of things about Clint seemed to be battered. “Shit. Ten minutes. I guess I’d better run.”

 

He stood up on the wall, perfectly balanced.

 

“See ya around, then.”

 

He snorted. “Only if I’m unlucky.” He then did a perfect somersault off of the wall before sprinting off.

 

What a show off. I guess he _was_ a circus kid.

 

o0O0o

 

I could tell that it was a bad evening before I even got in. The fragments of glass lining the hall next to door just confirmed it. Not to mention the fetid reek of cigarettes and alcohol that seeped from under the door to the living room.

 

And there was Gabe, playing poker like always, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Don’t even ask me what he did for a living; I don’t know. Probably lived off my mom’s life savings and the little bits and pieces he occasionally made while gambling.

 

Drunken laughter rent at my ears.

 

I trod on a creaky floorboard and Gabe’s head snapped up. “Hey, punk!” he growled, voice raspy from the smoke.

 

Jesus, this was bad.

 

“Yes?” I asked insolently, chin up and staring him in the eye.

 

“Got any cash on you? Reckon you’ve still got a fiver after lunch, hmm?” I hadn’t bought lunch, and he knew it. The fiver was my lunch allowance, and had been in my pocket, untouched, since the morning.

 

I reluctantly relinquished the fiver. “May it bring you much joy,” I snapped, slapping it into his hand.

 

His eyes flashed dangerously. “Get us four beers from the fridge,” he ordered.

 

I shook my head. “Get ‘em yourself.”

 

He lifted a hand. I tried not to flinch. “Get us a beer.”

 

I shook my head again, trying to stand my ground. “No.”

 

That was when the slap came. Sharp as a whip, it cracked through the air, striking me across my nose and cheek.

 

 _Fuck._ I kept silent, trying not to show my weakness. Trying not to instinctively lift my hand to hold the smarting impact site.

 

“ _Beers._ ”

 

I narrowed my eyes. “ _No_.”

 

If he got angry enough now, he would exhaust himself and fall asleep before Mom got home.

 

Maybe.

 

I should have seen the kick to the ankles coming, but no.

 

So when my face met the scuffed wooden floor, I was in no way prepared.

 

I curled in on myself instinctively, trying to make myself a slightly smaller target as the kick came again, viciously this time.

 

 _Dude_. My ribs like being intact, thank you very much.

 

“Would ya like to say that again?”

 

I wasn’t sure if he could see me, but I shook my head weakly as I tried to push myself up off the floor. I turned to face Gabe who just smiled and held up his fingers. “Four beers please, brain boy.”

 

I grimaced as I went through the doorway to the kitchen to pull the beers out of the fridge. My fingers didn’t want to obey me as I closed them around a bottle.

 

Which gave me a truly idiotic, but perfect idea.

 

I tightened my grip on the bottle, which was harder than it should’ve been. But I _had_ just been mildly beaten up after not eating since lunch _and_ swim training. So, it wasn’t that surprising that I was weary.

 

But I was still strong enough to shove the fridge closed with a little more force than necessary and walk to the door to the living room, single beer bottle in hand.

 

“Hey, so you wanted a beer?” I lifted it slightly, letting Gabe see that I was actually holding it.

 

He looked a little confused that I only had one.

 

“Well, here.”

 

I threw it as hard as I could in his direction. It slammed against the wall behind where his head had been. He lifted his bald forehead from the table, spitting rage. “Ha, you missed,” he said, not noticing the fragments rebounding off of the wall behind him into the back of his thick skull. Then, slow as a snail, he moved his hand up towards the river of red and brown beer streaming down onto his shirt. “ _You little shit!_ ” he whispered as he clenched his fists together. “Clearly you’re not gonna learn, but maybe you will when _Mommy_ comes home!” He mimed a smack and I flinched more at the thought of him hitting Mom than I did at the thought of him crushing my ribcage.

 

“No!” I gasped out. “Please! I’ll get your beer!”

 

He pointed his forefinger upwards. “And you’ll pay for the beer you just broke?”

 

“Define _pay_.”

 

He lunged forward, missing me by a finger’s breadth. I ran as fast as I could to the kitchen and grabbed the four beers that were sitting in the fridge. I gathered them up in my hands before sprinting back through the living rom, dumping the beers on the poker table and carrying on straight to my room.

 

Gabe followed.

 

 _Shit_.

 

This was bad.

 

But it was better than him hurting Mom.

 

I kept telling myself that.

 

It did very little to help with the pain.

 

o0O0o

 

Clint was behind me during my walk to school the next morning. It hit me that he must live in the same (dodgy) quarter of the city as me. I stopped so that he could catch up with me, before ruffling his hair. “Mornin’, kid.”

 

Clint’s gruff response didn’t surprise me at all. “‘M not a kid” He glanced up, then did a double take. “Jesus,” he muttered, eyebrows creasing.

 

“That bad, huh?” I asked, having not thought that the split skin and spreading black-purple bruise over my cheekbone was that impressive. It wasn’t compared to some of the other bruises that Gabe has marked me with. Besides, most of the damage was hidden by my shirt and hoodie.

 

But let’s just say that I wasn’t going to be able to swim for a while.

 

“I got into a fight with a mugger on my way home.” The lie slid off my tongue as easily as usual, still giving me that slight sour taste on my tongue.

 

But I was too weak to try to tell anyone again. Not after what happened last time.

 

Clint forced a small smile onto his face. “Pretty persistent mugger, huh?”

 

I nodded. “Seemed to think that I actually had cash on me. Little did he know that he’d picked on a broke high school student.”

 

Clint actually let out a short, huffing laugh at that. Yes, progress!

 

I stopped to turn down an alleyway. “C’mon, this way’s quicker. It means that we’ll get to school and you’ll actually be able to get to your locker without being stampeded by four-foot Freshmen. I mean, you’d fit right in heightwise.”

 

Clint shrugged halfheartedly, ignoring the jibe. “I haven’t got much that I need in there.”

 

“Yeah well, not getting stampeded is nice. Trust me, I speak from experience.”

 

“Bit of hanging around.”

 

“Says Mr-Sat-Around-On-A-Wall-For-Three-Hours-Yesterday,” I countered, flicking the hood of my hoodie up as we turned again into a darker and more miserable alley. “C’mon, we need to hurry down this bit.” I caught Clint eyeing the needles that were scattered over the sides of the street. I had _really_ been mugged in here once.

 

Clint seemed to think that was likely, too. “You know, if you use alleys like this all the time, then I not even surprised that you got mugged last night.”

 

I snorted. “If it’s any reassurance, I took the other route last night.” That was true as well; I had taken the other shortcut. It wasn’t any dodgier and I _hadn’t_ actually been mugged, but hey. I was trying to be nice to the kid. Calm his nerves and all that.

 

We pulled out of the dingey streets onto the road the the school was on, passing a Starbucks that was full of Senior Girls stressing about their ‘pumpkin spice lattes’. Sounded gross if you asked me. As we walked through the gates, I smiled at him. “See, wasn’t that so much easier than the ten minute detour you would have used.”

 

“I’d have felt safe.”

 

I snorted. “Safe-ER, maybe. It’s not a nice part of town on the best days.” I dragged him through the back doors. “You might not want to go through the front with that on your face.” I gestured to the bruise on the top of his forehead that I had _graciously_ not mentioned to him. “I definitely don't want to with this. Hey, what happened, anyway? Walk into a cupboard or something?”

 

He glared at me. “Yes.”

 

I turned away slightly to hide the smirk. “Circus kid, flawless somersaulting, walks into a frickin’ cupboard! Congrats, kid!”

 

The gaze he fixed on me could’ve cut steel.

 

“Ok, I won’t mention it.”

 

He turned down the corridor towards his locker without another word. Friendly. I carried on towards mine, coming to a stop between Jake and Connor Murphy, and twisting in the combination in order to hurl the locker door open without _too_ much force. Just plenty.

 

That was when I had to rush forward to grab all of the books falling out of my locker and smacking me in my sore face. Whoops, forgot about those.

 

Real smooth, Jackson.

 

I fumbled to shove them all back in, saving my French and Biology books under my arm for the first two periods.

 

That was when Jake noticed my face. “ _Fuck!_ ”

 

I started and dropped my books again, cursing as they landed heavily on my bruised toes. Just about everything was bruised. “Is it that bad?”

 

Jake whistled. “That bad? Dude, your lip is bleeding at the moment and your bruise is the size of a baseball. Yeah, it’s bad.”

 

I licked at my lip, confused. I mean it _had_ just been smacked with a pile of textbooks. So it _was_ bleeding. Oops. I then stooped to pick up the books that had dived to the floor. “Well, at least we know that the teachers won't notice. Do you remember that time that Tyler Goodman was beaten up during a Chem Lab, and the teacher didn't notice the bruises on his face, let alone the fight itself?”

 

Jake snorted. “The Chem teacher is almost completely deaf, and blind in one eye, _remember_?”

 

“They still don’t care.” I mean, it wasn’t the first time that I’d come into school roughed up and it wouldn’t be the last. They hadn’t done anything about it; hadn’t even asked if I was alright. Probably why Gabe had chosen this school; Zachary Taylor High School wasn’t exactly known for its nurturing environment. “It’ll be fine.” I muttered as I hurried to French. _Ça sera bien._

  


o0O0o

 

There was a food fight at lunch.

 

Yes, it was hilarious.

 

Until I got shoved over and hit the side of a metal table, sending shooting pains through my entire body.

 

I swore loudly and in a rather filthy manner.

 

And stayed curled on the floor, ribs pulsing and breath suddenly far too short. The sound of the kids screaming and laughing was too loud. I felt like my head was going to explode.

 

A leather-clad arm reached out and grabbed mine, yanking me to my feet and practically dragging me out of the room.

 

“Jeez, Jackson,” panted Clint. “You just _had_ to go deadweight, didn’t you?”

 

I rolled my eyes and coughed weakly, grimacing and putting an arm out against the wall for support. “Thanks, squirt.”

 

He folded his arms across his chest with an extra-murderous glare. “You sure you should be in school? I mean, I’m gonna guess that you took _quite_ the beating. And your _friends_ are ultra-concerned about your well-being, too.” He stared pointedly into the hall, to where my friends were mucking about and throwing copious amounts of creamy pudding everywhere.

 

Right, so the kid was sharp, too.

 

“I mean, _no_ , but it’s as good here as it is at home. And I’d have to catch up.”

 

He raised an eyebrow, but let it drop and turned around to stalk out.

 

We didn’t mention it again.

 

o0O0o

 

It was mid-December when Clint first didn’t show up to school, or rather to our meeting point before our walk to school from our area of The Bronx. Not that I was being stalkerish. But I had forced him to walk to school with me everyday and I was kinda worried about the fact that he just didn’t show up. I waited there for fifteen minutes, hoping he was late or something, but nothing.

 

The next day I waited in the same spot, hoping that it was just that Clint had suddenly become ill or something and would be in school that day, but, once again, nothing.

 

On the third day, Clint finally showed up with a black and blue hoodie and a matching black and blue face. Not going to lie, I was shocked that he could stand straight. His balance must’ve been shot to hell with his left eye quite that swollen.

 

And he was even moodier than usual, refusing to say a single word to me over the course of the entire journey, instead gazing stonily ahead and putting one foot stiffly in front of the other.

 

He didn’t even look at me before walking off to his own locker.

 

I glanced at his departing back for a moment, wondering what had happened to him. I mean, he could have _really_ been mugged, unlike me (who had been ‘mugged’ three more times over the last couple of months. I still had an impressive set of bruises over my chest due to cracked ribs from a week ago. I mean, Gabe lashed out often, but didn’t usually leave marks that were visible if you weren’t looking for them).

 

He could always talk to me if he wanted, came the unbidden thought. Another part of my mind snorted derisively and replied with ‘and he talks _so_ much, doesn’t he?’

 

Great. Now I was arguing with myself in my head. Just what I needed to convince the world that I was sane.

 

As I slid into my seat in home room, Jake tapped me on the shoulder. “Do you know what’s up with that kid you walk with?”

 

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean Clint?”

 

He shrugged. “Arrow kid? Is that his name? I spoke to him like once, ever.”

 

“That’s him, but yeah?”

 

“He barged into me in the hallway and just ran off without apologising. Also,” he added, “his face is a mess. Just talk to him about it. I don’t care about whatever’s going on in his life, but I know that you do.” He glared at me jokingly. “I see you staring at him in the cafeteria, trying to make sure he’s alright. He’s only a year younger than you, and from what we’ve all seen, he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” Oh, so he was referring to the time when he absolutely dropped the freshman bully on his arse. I mean, it was pretty impressive. And that nasty piece of work had it coming.

 

I don’t stare at Clint!

 

Often.

 

Fine, a lot, but he’s so tiny! I’d ruffle his hair if I wasn’t so sure he’d dislocate my shoulder.

 

So even my friend, who kinda disliked Clint after a couple of blanking incidents, had noticed that something was up.

 

But if he didn’t want to talk about it, I wasn’t going to force it. It’s not like I’m the right kind of person for him to be talking to anyway: I’m not a therapist! I need one!

 

I found myself hunting Clint down at lunch break. It far more difficult than you would think, considering that he _should_ be eating.

 

But apparently not, because he was most certainly nowhere anywhere near the cafeteria.

 

I finally found him on the other side of school in the quad. I squatted down next to where he was sitting with a book in his hand. “Hey.”  


He startled, but didn’t try to punch me. Well, that was progress from October.

 

He shoved his book shut and turned to me. “What?” His exasperated tone conveyed his mood perfectly.

 

So he didn’t want to talk.

 

Oh well. I was here now. “So… You’ve been even moodier than usual today. Now that’s hard, so people are starting to think that you’re a horrible person. And I’ve been told that I’m a mother hen and need to look after my tiny, angry chick. Oh, and I noticed that you haven’t got any food.” I shoved a cookie towards him. “So. Is there something you want to say? Or would you like to punch me in the face? If it’ll make you feel better, then this trek across the entire school will be a bit worth it. I guess.”

 

He glanced up at me, one eyebrow lifted, as if to say ‘ _Really?’_.

 

He took the cookie anyway, and ate the whole thing in two bites, which was mildly terrifying. The jaws of such a small person shouldn’t be able to unhinge that far. He crunched on it for a few seconds before brushing the crumbs away with his hand. “Who made this?” He actually seemed on the brink of a smile. “It’s delicious.”

 

“My mom.” I smirked. “I practically live off of them. We have some more at home, if you want to get some after school.” I knew that Gabe was actually at the office-place-thing that he was meant to work at today, so it was okay to bring Clint home, at least for a short while.

 

Clint stared down at his crumb-covered hands. “Okay, I’ll do that. Not for long, though. I need to be back home by five thirty tonight.”

 

Wait, what?

 

Did he just-?

 

Did he just _accept_ my offer of company?

 

o0O0o

 

Three hours later and we were at my house, eating all of the cookies that I had hidden in my room from Gabe.

 

“Jeez, dude,” I mumbled, shocked at the rate that he was devouring them (slightly hypocritically, mind you) from around a huge mouthful of cookie. “Haven’t you got food at home?”

 

Clint’s shoulders stiffened just a tiny bit before he relaxed again. He brandished yet another cookie at me. “I don’t have homemade stuff at the Pearson’s.”

 

Fair. These cookies were legendary. A couple of years ago, I’d started a black market business selling them (at a different school, mind you. They threw me out).

 

I started to lean backwards into my bed as I heard the door slam shut.

 

Panic washed over me. Gabe shouldn’t be home this early.

 

“Percy? I’ve brought some sweets home from work!” My mom’s voice rang through the tiny apartment.

 

Clint seemed to have panicked just as much as me and he was still tense. Clearly I’d stiffened more than I thought, because he relaxed visibly as soon as I felt the tension uncoiling from my shoulders at Mom’s voice.

 

“In here, Mom!” I called, guiltily trying to brush a few of the numerous crumbs off of my bedsheets.

 

She bustled into my room, busily chatting away. “I’ve got Nerds, Strawberry Laces and... Percy, who’s this?” Her eyes had landed on Clint’s position on my bed, and the half-eaten cookie guiltily caught halfway to his mouth.

 

“Oh, this is Clint. We walk to school together. I gave him a cookie at lunch and he wanted to try a couple more.”

 

Mom pursed her lips together and put her hands on her hips. “Perseus! You really should tell me when we have guests coming ‘round. I’d try to clean up this dump.” Her gaze raked over my bedroom, which was predictably messy as always. She turned her gaze on Clint and it softened significantly. “Clint, do you want a drink?”

 

Clint’s surprise at being spoken to was visible to say the least; his eyes practically popped out. “Uhh, just water, please, Mrs Jackson.”

 

Mom waved a hand. “Just Sally is fine, dear.” Then she left.

 

Clint let out a bubble of laughter. “Perseus! You’re called Perseus!”

 

I flushed red. “Shut up...” I wracked my head for a longer name than Clint. “Clinton!”

 

He smacked me with yet another cookie, which broke in half and sent crumbs flying everywhere. We both laughed until we were gasping for breath, ignoring all of the problems going on in our lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for swinging by. Please drop us a comment if you're enjoying it/hating it/not giving a fuck about it.


	3. 2012 (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Percy grow closer, and a new, familiar face appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the huge response that this has received!

Christmas and New Year came and went without much ceremony in our house. So Gabe beat me up Christmas day. It’s just another day, really. 

 

So the new year began, exactly the same as the old, except for one not-overly small thing.

 

I just about had a friend that wasn’t a ‘jock’ or a complete idiot. Maybe someone that I could even trust. Although, as Clint flicked a considerable amount of cream pudding my way in the cafeteria, I doubted myself on that. 

 

“Dude!” I spluttered. “First day of the new year and you’re already trying to humiliate me!” 

 

He smirked, but didn’t offer any words. 

 

Jeez, this guy was a nightmare. One step forward, two backwards to the extreme. 

 

Then his smirk fell off of his face quickly as he spotted something, or someone, across the cafeteria. “Is that Nat? Oh God, she’s gonna kill me.”

 

I craned my neck in the general direction that he was looking in. “Where?”

 

He pointed in the direction of a very pretty and grumpy redhead that was sitting by herself in another corner of the cafeteria. Her resting death glare was even more terrifying than Clint’s. 

 

So, naturally, Clint jumped up and shouted “Nat!” across the cafeteria. 

 

I wanted to melt into my seat with second-hand embarrassment. 

 

‘Nat’ glanced up at Clint, eyes widening ever so slightly in recognition. She made a gesture and mouthed some words. Fast. I couldn’t see what she was saying. 

 

Clint clearly did, because he sat back down quite quickly. “Oh, she’s really going to kill me.” 

 

Sure enough, as soon as the girl had finished her lunch (at a leisurely pace, mind you), she stood up fluidly and left with a pointed look at Clint.

 

He followed her with the air of a man headed for the gallows. 

 

I went after him, ready to step in if he did get absolutely pummelled, or laugh at him, depending on the circumstance.

 

Clint turned a corner and practically walked straight into the red-haired girl, who had stopped quite suddenly just out of his line of sight before he turned. 

 

“Hi, Nat,” he said awkwardly, lowering his gaze. “Well, this is awkward. What happened to that Russian school-thing?”

 

“Clint,” she stated simply, no hint of any foreign accent in her voice. “And I left because I didn’t like it. What happened to the circus?” 

 

He glanced up, clearly about to give an honest answer, but the iron barriers snapped back down behind his eyes. “None of your business,” he snapped, folding his arms defensively.

 

Nat sighed. “What’s life  _ done _ to you, Hawk?” she asked, sounding a little incredulous. “You were so full of it.” I wasn’t sure if she was talking about life or arrogance; I didn’t want to ask. “And now you’re weak and sagging.” She made a small gesture and pulled a comically sad-looking face.

 

Clint seemed to take full offence to that, standing up straighter than he had in the past four months. He strode completely over to her and muttered something to her in - was that Russian? 

 

Nat’s eyebrows raised before she said something back in the same language. Then, before Clint could stop her, she stomped over to me and tugged on my arm, waving a finger threateningly in my face. “You better not be hurting my Hawk.” 

 

Clint facepalmed. 

 

First of all, what was with the Hawk thing? Second of all,  _ her  _ Hawk? 

 

I gulped. “I’m not hurting him,” I squeaked in rather an unmanly fashion, heart beginning to flutter at the sight of the same cold fury in her eyes that I’d so often seen in Gabe’s. 

 

Clint coughed loudly. “He’s a friend, Nat. Don’t kill him. And for the last time, I’m not  _ your  _ Hawk. I’m just the kid that your school project paired you with for that weekend so that you could discuss what ‘skills’ meant.”

 

Nat stepped back, the anger fading as quickly as it had appeared. “So, who is it, Hawk?” 

 

Clint sighed. “Please stop. I haven’t been Hawk for like six months now, Nat. I’m just Clint Barton now.” 

 

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t press further. It was painfully obvious, even to me, that she was completely aware that he hadn’t answered her question. “Come on,  _ Clint _ . We might not get an opportunity to catch up for ages. You know that my guardian’s sick and we’re moving all over to get her treatment, right? I probably won’t be here for long. And it’s Nat _ asha _ .” 

 

Clint nodded slightly, but his moment of openness was gone and I knew from bitter experience that nothing that Nat(asha?) said would make him open up again.

 

o0O0o

 

Two weeks later, Clint announced that he was moving house in the next couple of weeks and that he wouldn't be able to walk with me to school anymore. When I asked he just replied with, “New family,” and that was that conversation finished. 

 

He started walking to school with Natasha (“Not ‘Tasha’ or ‘Nat’. If you ever say that I will end you.”) every morning and evening and stopped hanging around after school. Nat _ asha _ mentioned that she was going to have to leave within the next couple of months, depending on how the treatment went.

 

I got mugged a couple of times. And ‘mugged’ a few more times than that. I noticed Natasha’s eyebrows twitch whenever I mentioned it (we ate together awkwardly in a corner of the cafeteria and stalked everyone. It was great. As Clint was a sophomore, I was a junior and Natasha was a senior, we were in on three years’ gossip. Watching people interact knowing all about the drama was hilarious.). 

 

Clint had actually started to open up a bit to me, which was shocking to begin with. He’d come into school majorly beaten up a couple of days before he announced he was moving, but after leaving my quarter of town, he’d not been picked on at all. Maybe it was just the fact that he walked with Nat, I guessed. She was terrifying on a good day. 

 

But he was overall a lot more relaxed nowadays. And I wasn’t going to question it. 

 

I mean, he still wasn’t exactly  _ chatty _ , but he was less prone to sullen silence than before. I learnt that he did archery and gymnastics, which kinda explained why he was still able to do a triple back somersault from the ‘circus’ (which I still wasn’t convinced was real). He’d been a bit awkward about it before, thinking that maybe I’d judge him for being a boy in gymnastics. Fat chance; he was good. (Which was more than I could currently say for my swimming. I hadn’t been training regularly due to injury for months now and hadn’t been to a competition, knowing that the results would be completely humiliating.) 

 

o0O0o

 

Nat disappeared for a couple of weeks halfway through February. Clint shrugged it off, saying that her guardian was going for experimental treatment just across the state, and she’d be back in a week or so, depending on how it went. If it was successful, they’d be back soon. If not, it would be longer. 

 

So we talked alone again at lunch, much like as is was before Nat arrived, except Clint was considerably more cheerful and open than before. 

 

But now he just seemed concerned.

 

“Percy,” he began awkwardly, having walked to the quad as the cafeteria was insanely busy. He wrung his hands nervously, leg bouncing slightly. “Is everything alright with you? I mean, all of this mugging…” He sighed. “I’m gonna be straight with you, mate. I think you’re lying to me. About the muggings.” 

 

I just sat there, slack-jawed. 

 

That was by far the longest sentence(s?) I had ever heard him utter, and it came out of his own volition. 

 

Not to mention that I was touched about his concern. 

 

“Why would I lie to you?” I managed to half-choke out after an awkward beat of silence.

 

“I’m asking you. But I have an idea.”

 

I sighed deeply, feeling the truth rearing its ugly head for the first time in years. 

 

For the first time since that time I told a teacher. Gabe had been nice for the three months that it took for social services to lose interest. 

 

I’d been hospitalised for three weeks afterwards, though. 

 

Clint tilted his head slightly, waiting for a response. When none came, he took the initiative. “It’s someone at home. Your dad?” 

 

“Stepdad,” I replied instinctively. “My dad was lost at sea before I was born.” 

 

“But is it?” He folded his arms.

 

I nodded wordlessly. 

 

The revelation didn’t feel like a lifted weight after all of this time. It just made me feel weak. 

 

Weak that I hadn’t kept my promise to myself; the promise that I wouldn’t tell anyone. Weak because now there was another person who I cared about potentially in danger because of me. 

 

Clint sighed himself then, and just said two more words. Apparently he’d used up today’s quota in his long speech.

 

“Me too.” 

 

We sat in silence for a while.

 

A thought occurred to me then, sharp and painful. I spun to Clint quite suddenly. “You can’t tell anyone,” I said, forcefully. 

 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Not even Nat?” 

 

I shook my head. “Nobody. He’ll kill my mom if he finds out that I’ve whispered a word to anybody.”

 

Clint nodded slightly. “Okay.”

 

o0O0o

 

Three days later and my face was purple again. 

 

Clint and I had finally seen each other for the first time that day in the cafeteria. It was louder than usual, and I was distracted. 

 

Something nudged at my hand. I batted it away without thinking.

 

It nudged again, more incessantly this time. 

 

I glanced down to see the gaudy wrapper of a chocolate bar poking against my arm. 

 

Clint didn’t even look up, but let it go and stopped the poking. 

 

One glance at his lunchbox saw what looked like at least three, if not four other chocolate bars. 

 

“Um, Clint?” I asked. “Why have you got like a million chocolate bars? Is your new family  _ trying _ to give you diabetes?” 

 

Clint chuckled slightly. “I told them about what really happened at the Pearsons,” he stated flatly. “They were naturally shocked and horrified and gave me loads of food. Not that I’m complaining or anything. Didn’t seem like that big of a deal if you asked me.” 

 

It hit me then, curiously, that Clint had never actually directly told me that he had experienced abuse at the Pearsons. I’d just… worked it out, I guessed. 

 

But the fact that he saw it as a regular occurence; something normal.

 

That meant that this ran far deeper than I could have even imagined.

 

Now, I knew that what Gabe was doing was wrong. It was fear that had kept  _ me  _ silent, not sympathy for him. But Clint? 

 

I could only speculate as to what he’d really been through. 

 

I picked up the chocolate bar thankfully, though, and ate it as Clint ate the three more that he had. 

 

Sometimes having a friend that you didn’t even have to directly say something to for them to know what you’re thinking is really great. 

 

And right now? A friend was just what I needed.

 

o0O0o

 

Natasha reappeared again the following week. Apparently this treatment had been as successful as expected, but still not successful enough. The likelihood was that she was going to have to move elsewhere before the end of the year. 

 

Pity. It was nice to have a bodyguard. 

 

I invited Clint over one evening after school. Gabe wasn’t due home for an hour or so and he had a project to complete that I had definitely done the year before, so was trying to find for him so that he could have a ‘template’ to work from. 

 

Fortunately, I found the project.

 

Unfortunately (As nothing ever goes my way)? Gabe got back early.

 

And he was  _ pissed  _ (in two senses of the word).

 

He grinned at Clint [read: leered], before ushering me into his bedroom. “Who the  _ fuck  _ is that and why the  _ fuck  _ is he in my apartment?” He wrapped a meaty fist tightly into the material of my shirt and held me close to his face. I tried to turn my head away, but it didn’t help. He still reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. 

 

“He’s my friend,” I said in a small, slightly choked voice. “Cuz, you know, I have friends. He just wanted to chat and get some advice on a project.” I definitely sounded a lot braver than I felt. 

 

Gabe delivered a punch to my stomach before I managed to blurt out an excuse as to why he shouldn't hurt Clint. “This is my house. I pay for the roof over your head, the carpet beneath your feet and the bed that you sleep in. So you should listen to my rules. No friends, no guests, no social services.” He threw another punch, this time slightly higher up. I felt my ribs creak in complaint. “Got it?”

 

I nodded weakly. I scampered out of the room and herded Clint out. “It was great to have you here, but you kinda need to go now.”

 

Clint furrowed his eyebrows. “Wha-”

 

I practically shoved him out of the doorway. “Bye.”

 

He rammed his foot in the door as I tried to shut it. Damn circus training. Damn reflexes. Damn balance. “I’m not leaving until I understand what’s going on.”

 

“There’s nothing to understand,” I hissed out. “Bye!”

 

I tried to close the door again. Unfortunately, his foot was still there. “Nope. That wasn’t an answer. Try again.”

 

“Gabe doesn’t really like visitors and he may not have been expecting you,” I exhaled in about a second. “Bye.” 

 

Clint withdrew his foot, looking thoughtful.

 

The last thing I saw as I pretty much slammed the door in his face was a distantly worried look in his eyes.

 

o0O0o

 

The following day, the first thing I did to Clint was apologise.

 

“Look, sorry for slamming the door on you last night, but I wasn’t expecting Gabe back for ages and he’s got a thing about ‘no visitors’. So, sorry.” 

 

Clint pointed at my forehead, where a new bruise had begun to come in rather nicely. “You’ve got a new bruise. What, you got mugged  _ this morning _ ? Nope. That’s come up with at least ten hours’ worth of bruising.” He glared at me. “That was not a goddamn mugging. That is a sign of fucking abuse and don’t even try to pass it off as anything different. I may be oblivious, but not to that extent.”

 

I looked him straight in the eye. “I already told you that Gabe hit me. I thought you  _ knew _ .”

 

“I do. So why do you keep lying about all of this?” 

 

I shrugged weakly. “Habit? Maybe I could pass it off as a one off incident. I dunno what I was thinking. Maybe if I lie to other people then I can convince myself that it’s all okay. And I can’t tell people. I just can’t.  _ I  _ nearly died the first time and he swore that he’d kill Mom if I told anyone ever again.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes, muttered an  “As if” and disappeared into the crowd towards his locker. 

 

o0O0o

 

It was mid-May when I came into school with a broken leg because Gabe had kicked it so hard that it had fractured. Fun.

 

This was also when Nat pulled me aside into a corner and scolded me. “Who is doing this?” It was the first time I had heard any of her native Russian accent appear in her voice, so naturally I was too shocked to respond. 

 

“What?” I tried to laugh it off, feeling the knife slash on my arm pull as I put a little too much weight through my left crutch. “No one’s doing anything to me. I just tripped down some of the stairs in my apartment building, because, you know, I’m a clumsy idiot.”

 

She shook her head and scowled at me, voice dropping to a deadly hiss. “Stop lying to me. No gets mugged that many times. Not even someone as scrawny as you.” 

 

“Hey!” I would have folded my arms across my chest, but nope, kinda needed crutches to keep me upright, and I’d have fallen over or smacked myself or Nat with a crutch in the process. “I’m not scrawny! I’m average, thank you very much.”

 

She poked me in the chest. I winced as my bruised ribs protested. “Yeah, right.” She leaned into me a bit more. “Look, if it’s your stepdad,” I didn’t even want to know how she found out that I had a stepdad, “I can sort it out. Just give me a week or so, okay?”

 

I nodded mutely, too dumbstruck and terrified to open my mouth and defend Gabe. 

 

“So it is your stepdad.”

 

I lowered my gaze, silent, before uttering the one truth that I’d never told anyone since all those years ago. “He’ll kill her.” 

 

“No, he won’t.” She let out a huff of amusement. “That’s just something he’s been telling you to make you obedient. If he could kill her as easily as that and not regret it, why would he still be married to her? What’s the point in that?” She crossed her arms. “Look, give me until next Thursday to sort it out. Just don’t provoke him until then.” She made a start to leave, but stopped suddenly. “Can I come to your house on Monday?”

 

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why?”

 

“Do you want me to sort out this situation or not?”

 

I gulped and nodded slightly, before sending a withering glare in Clint’s direction. He minutely shook his head, as if to say ‘it wasn’t me’. 

 

I confronted him about it at the end of lunch. Nat had to head off just a tad early in order to get to class on time. 

 

“Why did you tell her? I told you, you  _ can’t  _ tell anyone!”

 

“I didn’t tell her, I swear. Let me just tell you now, though. You can’t keep secrets around Nat. She  _ always _ , and I mean  _ always _ , figures them out.”

 

I sighed. “If you say so.”

 

We parted ways for class.

 

o0O0o

Natasha came to my house the following Monday with a suspiciously big puffer-jacket on. I worried my lip as I opened the door to let her in. “Are you cold?”

She let out a huff of air at this. “No? I’m Russian. And it’s May.” She strode straight into Gabe and Mom’s room. 

“I really wouldn't do that if I were you!” I tried to grab her before she walked into the room and started fiddling with the windows, but overbalanced and fell with a curse into a tangle of limbs and crutches. “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing?”

She gave a curse in Russian before flicking one of the latches and shut it again. “Trying to make sure that you stay safe. And don’t have to limp into school anymore with half-baked lies about being mugged.” 

I led her out into the kitchen. “Sure, but, if my mom asks when she gets home, you were just here for cookies and Bio homework.”

Natasha picked one of the cookies up from the tray on the side. “Sure thing.” She took a bite and swallowed, chewing loudly before strolling out of the door. 

How she managed to make rudely eating a cookie look elegant is so unfair. Then again, I didn’t even know what she had been doing in my home, let alone  _ how  _ she did anything.

Nat reappeared, cookie still half-eaten in hand. “One sec.” She strode back in and grabbed the largest kitchen knife, the one that Gabe sometimes turned on me. She looked around for a second, before sighing and pulling a small stone out of her pocket. 

I must’ve looked confused, because she made a small gesture with the rock. “Whetting stone,” she said, before viciously driving the knife blade-down into it, severely blunting the blade and sending sparks flying. 

I flinched. “What are you doing?” 

She ignored me and continued to mutilate the knife for a short while, before putting the knife back into the block and pocketing her whetting stone. 

“It’ll hurt more, but won’t do as much damage as it did when it was sharp,” she said by way of explanation and left for real, snagging another cookie as she went. 

I subconsciously rubbed at the knife wound in my arm, wondering how she’d worked out that it was there. 

o0O0o

It was three days later that I heard a thud in the middle of the night, followed by a faint clatter that always accompanied the master bedroom’s single window being opened. 

Then, nothing. 

I went back to sleep and was only jolted awake by my alarm ringing loudly in the morning.

It was accompanied by horrified screams. I jolted up from where I had flopped back down onto my mattress, leg protesting. “Mom? Mom!”

I grabbed my crutches and hurried out of my room and across the room to her’s. 

It wasn’t a nice sight to say the least. The bed was covered in blood, pooling beneath Gabe’s sodden, stabbed body. His hands were lying limp and his eyes had opened and rolled back. His yellowing teeth glimmered in his mouth where it was hanging open. 

Dead. He was dead. I couldn’t decide if I should be happy or horrified. 

Mom looked traumatised. Not that I could blame her.

But life would be a lot safer for the both of us not that he was gone. 

“Um…” My voice trembled. “Shouldn’t we call the police or something?” 

Mom shook herself out of her trance. “Yes, yes of course.” She hobbled over to the table and grabbed her mobile, briefly glancing up at me. “Police please. My husband has been stabbed during the night.” She sounded a lot calmer than she had just seconds beforehand. 

She rushed through all of the details with the police, before hanging up. “I think you should go to school.”

“What?” My voice cracked mid-word. “Mom, I can’t just leave you here, with a  _ corpse _ .”

“I don’t want them to question you. Interrogate you. You clearly had nothing to do with this. You should go to school. Your friends can protect you there.” 

I shook my head. “Absolutely not. I’ll come with to the police station after you’re done here. I’ll send Clint a text to say that I’m not coming in. Family emergency. It’ll be fine.”

She sighed. “You sure about this?” 

I nodded firmly, head spinning slightly. I hadn’t eaten any dinner last night after walking/ hobbling/ whatever home and it was starting to make me feel ill. 

Mom gave me a firm look, but relented. “Breakfast first.” 

I didn’t argue.

o0O0o

We were still eating breakfast when the cops arrived, banging loudly on the door. I got up before Mom, giving her a look. She’d only just sat down and I’d had mine for a while. 

I made my way over to the door and opened it, still a little wobbly but getting there.

The guy in charge couldn’t have been much older than twenty, but had an air of authority around him. 

“Sally Jackson?” he asked with a slight twinkle in his eye. He was messing with me. I wasn’t going to be Sally, was I? 

“I’m her son, Percy.” 

He nodded curtly, suddenly all business again. “Your mom around? This is a murder case, you know.” 

I snorted. “I live here, dude. I’m aware that my stepdad was brutally murdered.” 

He scowled down at me as if I was a rat that had appeared in his subway station. “A murder case isn’t funny, you know. Though I doubt that someone as young as you would understand the solemnity of such an event.” 

Fuck off, you’re only like three years older than me. “He’s my stepdad. I can understand that having a fucking corpse in the house is kind of serious.”

He walked straight past me into the kitchen. I nearly fell over as crutching out of his way put me off balance. “Sally Jackson? NYPD,” he barked at her.

I sighed to myself. This was going to be a long morning.

o0O0o

Three hours later, and they’d determined that the cause of death was stabbing and that it happened sometime between the hours of 2 and 5. Genius. 

I fought the urge to roll my eyes as both of us were asked for the fifth time in ten minutes what we had been doing at the time. The hard, plastic chair at the police station was uncomfortable and not designed for a human backside, and my leg was sore. 

“I was asleep in my bed across the hall,” I said in the same, dull monotone. “Just like I told you a minute ago.”

Mom sighed. “As I said, we fought that evening, so I was in the spare bedroom on the camp bed. I opened the windows a crack the evening before so that it wouldn’t get too stuffy and didn’t close them again. We always sleep with the windows open. The killer must’ve got their hand under the window frame and opened it. That’s why there’s no sign of breaking and entering, and why we didn’t hear them arrive.” 

“Surely you heard your husband struggling?” 

We shook our heads simultaneously. “We were both asleep,” Mom reiterated. 

“I woke up briefly when I heard a thud, but it was silent after that. I had no idea that anything had happened until after Mom had woken up in the morning.”

Mom nodded. “I went into the master bedroom to wake him up, and, well, you know what was waiting for me.” 

The investigator nodded, and made another note on his clipboard. What he was noting, I hadn’t a clue. We’d said all of this multiple times already. 

He stood to leave. We stood too and shook his hand. “Thank you for your time,” he said as he headed out. “The forensics team are just finishing their report and will confirm what you have said. Your remaining here now is but a formality.” 

The door closed with a click, and I collapsed onto the hard, plastic chair with a hiss. 

This was going to be a very long day.

 

o0O0o

“Is there any reason as to why someone would want to murder your stepfather?” They’d pulled me into a separate room to try and ‘cross-check’ my story with my mom’s. 

I fidgeted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pain that was rapidly swelling in my bad leg. “Yeah, I guess. He gambled a lot. It might’ve been someone he racked up debts with. Maybe some drugs; who knows what he was doing at home all those days.”

The officer interrogating me frowned. “Any other reasons?” His gaze intensified. 

I shrank in on myself. “Uhh, maybe he hit someone or beat them up? Maybe they wanted revenge.” The officer scrutinised me; he mumbled some sort of assent. “I think he might of had another wife before my mom. Maybe she’d been...” I swallowed the bile that was building up in my mouth. “Abused. That could be revenge.”

The officer’s gaze softened again, but his gaze lingered on the fading yellow-green bruise over my cheekbone. “Did he abuse you?” he asked, in the kindest voice I’d heard from someone other than my mom all day.

I glanced down at my hands in my lap, and nodded silently, trying not to let out the tears that were threatening to fall.

After carrying the secret myself for so many years (except for people I could really call friends), I’d expected it to feel like a lifted weight. But it didn’t. It just felt like an emptiness inside of me where I’d forgotten what it meant to be loved as part of a functional family all those years ago. It kinda hurt actually; I’d never admitted it to anyone, or at least not properly. Both Natasha and Clint had worked it out without me having to say a word, and now a police officer was the first person to find out directly from my say-so.

“Yeah, we’re gonna get this whole mess sorted out, okay? Maybe get you guys some therapy before the investigation ends. Does that sound good? But we will have to ask more questions about this. Because it’s something that our heartless investigator/ consultant will consider a motive for murder.”

I looked up at him, and managed to blurt out the words before my throat closed off entirely. “He threatened to kill my mom if I brought a mate back from school. There was no way I could have plotted his murder without consequences.” 

“This is exactly the point that any investigator would try to make: you would want to do things for yourself.” An image briefly flashed through my mind of Natasha fiddling with the window in the master bedroom, and I began to wonder. 

But Nat was just a senior. I mean, yeah, she was scary. But she wasn’t a killer. 

So I said nothing, and simply rubbed at the top of my cast. It felt like my leg was about to explode inside it, and it wasn’t exactly a comfortable feeling.

And the day dragged on.

 

o0O0o

I slid into my usual seat at our lunch table as calmly as you could after your stepdad is murdered and you spend an entire day being asked if you killed him. So I rushed in and sat down as quickly as I could. Clint raised his eyebrows at me, clearly not wanting to ask with Jake sitting at our table (for some reason. He didn’t even really talk to us all that much,  _ I  _ didn’t understand why he even sat there anymore.) and Natasha just flashed a quick and small smile over at me, with a knowing look in her eyes.

So she had something to do with it. Surely the staff didn’t tell them, so the fact that she knew meant that she played a role somehow.

I didn’t know whether to be deeply disturbed or if I should thank her. Maybe both?

I mean, Gabe was awful, but killing him felt a little extreme. 

Natasha and Clint exchanged a glance on their side of the table. 

“What?” I asked.

Natasha smiled at me briefly. “I’m moving back to Russia at the end of the year. My guardian just confirmed that we’d be able to get some treatment for her that we’d been chasing after for a long time. It’s cheaper and our entire lives were there only six months ago anyway. So yeah... Surprise.” She did a little jazz hands movement (something she must have learnt from Clint) and grinned slightly wider. 

Jake left the table. 

Clint’s gaze darkened almost immediately and he leaned conspiratorially across the lunch bench. “Okay, what the fuck happened yesterday? Where were you?” 

I turned to glance at him. “Gabe was murdered during the night,” I stated flatly. 

“Shit.” Clint leant back, eyebrows raised. “Now  _ there  _ is a reason to miss school.”

“Yeah.”

“What even  _ happened _ ?” Natasha was now the one leaning heavily against the bench. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”

I huffed a short, humourless laugh. “I’m sure that there are plenty of people who wanted to kill my stepfather, Nat. I mean gambling, abuse, drugs? The list goes on and on.” Both of them flicked their eyes up to mine at my blatant mention of abuse. It was a bolder move than I felt that I was capable of at the time. 

But he was dead now, and that meant that he couldn’t hurt me. 

“Yes,” Nat sort of half-sighed, “but what actually  _ happened _ ?” 

“As in, how was he killed? ‘Cuz I’ve got a copy of the forensic report burned into my skull from yesterday? Or what happened with us?” I knew that I was being short, but I was tired and sick of questions, and I could tell that Nat already knew the answers to her questions.

Natasha rolled her hand, urging me to share more. 

“He was stabbed in the middle of the night, with one of our kitchen knives no less. Police took us in for questioning, asked me if I’d murdered him a few million times, that sort of thing.” Maybe I sound casual, but on the inside I was still screaming. “It was interesting. Oh, and now I need to go to therapy for the next six months, which is fun, but whatever.” 

Clint narrowed his eyes slightly, clearly able to tell that everything was not as well in the world of Percy Jackson as I was pretending it was. “Uh huh, sure.” He shot a quick glance at Natasha before pushing himself up from the table. “I think I should probably head out to gym class now. I think that  _ Nat  _ should start heading to French.” He ground out the last sentence before dragging her from the lunch bench, gaze like a laser beam.

What the fuck?

I sighed and stood up to leave for class, dropping a crutch with a clatter and swearing at not-quite the top of my lungs, before staring at it accusingly for a few seconds until I eventually pulled myself together and bent down to grab it. 

Well, that was a sign that that would be a shit day.

o0O0o

It was graduation day and I couldn’t tell if Nat was happy because she would never be in the hellhole known as school again, or because she would never have to experience American education again. Probably both. I mean, I’ve spent my fair share of time in the swimming pool changing rooms and let’s just say that it’s not exactly a pleasant experience.

I was happy as well, but that might just have been because I didn't have any classes that day and it was (shockingly for graduation) actually a sunny day, plus the fact that I was out of my cast and nearly back to full-time swim training. 

As soon as the hellions (by that I mean the entire school, myself included) were released, I was pretty much tackled bodily by Clint and Natasha. At the same time. From different directions. 

Clint still didn’t look  _ happy _ , per se, but Clint never really looked happy. He looked  _ more  _ happy than usual. There was a sort of life about him that there hadn’t been before. 

Natasha, on closer inspection, seemed to be a touch nervous. Not that anyone except me and Clint would notice it. She glanced down briefly at her feet. “Well,” she began, voice just a tiny bit too upbeat, “I guess this is goodbye. For now, at least.” She paused. “We’re heading off tonight, so I’ve got to finish my packing and head.”

An awkward silence stretched briefly between the three of us, until Clint quite literally threw himself at Natasha and attempted to knock her over with the force of his hug (it didn’t work. Strangely enough, Clint was the one who ended up on his arse). Nat glanced down at him for a brief moment, before glancing back up at me and making a small shrug motion, which I took as an invitation to give her another (somewhat more civilised) hug myself. 

She smiled wanly, and turned as if to go. 

I gave a small cough and managed to just about blurt out the words that clogged my throat. “Thanks, Nat. For what you did.” 

Natasha looked confused for a second, before that melted into knowing and she gave a curt nod. “It was my pleasure. Glad you worked it out. I mean, I left clues, but tried not to make it  _ too  _ obvious. Get me?”

I nodded again. “But really. Thanks.” 

She waved away my apology and disappeared into the crowd.


	4. Interlude: 2012 (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short interlude about Percy's summer holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about how short this is. The fact that my co-writer and I had enough time to edit it sort of meant that this is the only thing that gets posted. We're hoping to get the end of 2012 up by the end of this month (before the summer holidays start). If you wanna say hi to my co-writer, her name is StormSunfire

 -  **2** **012 (Interlude)**

 

 

The summer was pretty boring, especially without Nat and Clint. Nat was in Russia, and Clint? He was off doing God knows what with his foster family, who were apparently trying to spoil him rotten (not that he was complaining, mind you). I think he was in, like, Belarus, or Ukraine... I have no fucking clue. Europe, I think. But he could’ve been in Peru for all I knew. 

 

Of course, Mom and I went to Montauk, which was, for once, not darkened by Gabe’s presence or his lingering threats and bruises. It was pretty chilled out, really. 

 

But we couldn’t afford to be gone longer than a week and that left a very long, very empty expanse of time that I could only fill with swim training and getting myself a job, which, naturally, got boring after about the first ten minutes. It was coaching a kids swim team, using what little experience I had from when everyone thought that I actually had potential when it came to said sport. It was okay, I guess; the pay was good, it was kinda nice to see some little kid’s eyes light up after winning a race, but it didn’t change the fact that we were in the dingiest public swimming pool in all of New York.

 

While they were swimming, I entertained myself by learning some epic float skills. I’d throw it up and catch it behind my back: see if I could hit the ceiling. The head coach (when he was there) didn’t really approve, but he was pleased with how the kids were coming along and kept asking me why I wasn’t at regionals. 

 

One such conversation got rather painful.

 

“Jackson,” he’d started, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “I have to admit, these kids are improving by leaps and bounds. So what’s your secret?” 

 

I shrugged slightly. “No secret. I just get them learning their technique right using a few of the stroke building drills that I used to do, and when they get the hang of that, I move them onto drills that are a bit more specific. Get their technique a bit more precise.”

 

He nodded approvingly. “I like it. And they like you. You’re a swimmer yourself, aren’t you?”

 

I nodded. “Used to swim here, ‘til we couldn’t afford the subs. I swim with school at the moment; we only have to pay if we do galas there.”

 

He nodded in understanding. Seemed to nod a lot, this guy. “It’s a shame. Jackson - kid -  you went to state within a year and everyone expected you to fly through the competitions, and then you just dropped off the radar totally.” 

 

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I just nodded and said, “Yup.”

 

“So, you made it anywhere good with school?” 

 

I snorted slightly and shook my head. “I can hardly ever train. I’ve got to have a job to keep me and my mom afloat, and especially last year I was injured for almost the whole season. Fell down the stairs a couple times, got mugged more times than I can count…” The old lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

 

The guy narrowed his eyes, just slightly. I was never a brilliant liar. “Mugged?” 

 

I nodded. “Walked home by myself, took shortcuts down back alleys, always a pretty scrawny looking kid. Recipe for it, really.” 

 

He didn’t look impressed, but decided not to push it any further. Fortunate, really, or I’d have been spilling my life story. Again. “Well, I hope you’re not planning on getting mugged too many times this year, kid.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “ I’d like you to rejoin the club. I can haggle down the fees if they’re the problem. We’re non-profit, but we’ve currently got enough members to just about cover your membership. I still think that you can go far with this. Plus the midgets in this squad love you. They wanna see you around more. I mean you won’t get paid as much as the rest of us, as you’ll only be a student coach, but we’d like you to stick around in this position as well. That,” he gestured to the form, “is the form for a lifesaving qualification. Starts next week. Eighty dollars, if you can. You get that, you get the better club pay and can get a job as a lifeguard in any pool about. And lifeguarding pays very well. Better than stacking shelves or whatever you’re currently doing, anyway.” 

 

I felt a grin split my face. “I’ll find the money,” I promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swing by my (literally) empty tumblr twelve-olympains.


	5. 2012 (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, we are (barely) alive. Yay, here's the next chapter. Shoot us any questions you have in either the reviews or at my tumblr: twelve-olympains.

**\- 2012**

 

All too soon, summer was over and kids were pouring into the gates of the high school. I hefted my rucksack and took a deep breath before taking the step into the grounds, shoulders squared. I really shouldn't have been as nervous as I was now that I was a Senior, but still, it was high school. 

 

And high school sucks, big time. 

 

A short, sandy blond shape cannoned into me, nearly taking me off my feet completely. “Percy! You survived!” Clint cheered mockingly. 

 

I smacked him upside the head. “Dude, you can’t do that.” 

 

“Do what?” he asked, eyes widened comically in a fake-innocent expression. 

 

“Try and kill me like that. Not everyone has circus balance. And seriously, what _ has  _ got into you today? You’re usually all moody.” 

 

He shrugged. “I may have eaten ice cream for breakfast.”

 

“ _ Why _ ?” 

 

“I asked if I could. They said yes.” He bounced slightly. 

 

Geez, this was going to be a long day. 

 

I ruffled his hair, immediately turning his expression to a sour one. “How was your holiday, by the way? Were your new family nice the  _ entire  _ time?”

 

He gave a half-shrug. “Pretty much. We went to Croatia and Bosnia. It was sunny most of the time, and interesting. Europe’s pretty. We should take you guys next time.”

 

“Did you have coffee as well as ice cream?” I asked suspiciously, watching Clint bounce up and down as we walked with that stupid grin plastered all over his face.

 

“Maybe?”

 

I gave my very best long-suffering sigh and hoped for all I was worth that the sugar-and-caffeine rush would wear off by lunchtime. 

 

o0O0o

The last dregs of summer quickly faded into autumn, leaves turning shades of blood red and the beautiful golds that I’ll forever associate with beers, before crisping up and dying, leaving brown carcasses on the ground. 

 

Sad, really, how what to some is the most beautiful display from nature in the year can only ever remind me of death. 

 

Late October was high school open day, when we took deep breaths, banned the delinquents (so, me) and opened our doors to the public, giving the best possible impression to middle schoolers thinking of coming here. 

 

This year, school had decided to do a gifts and talents display. At first, this made me laugh. Nobody in their right mind would pick the skinny, scarred boy with authority issues and dyslexia to represent the school system and how completely and utterly it had failed them. 

 

But then they said that they were doing a sports display, and I was suddenly interested. 

 

Then, lo and behold, I was chosen to represent the school swim team, with races, drill demonstration and the works, really. Try to make us look sporty. Oh, and I was lifeguarding for the freshmen first-year swimmers (i.e. they couldn’t swim before joining the school), to show that we could get qualified and find meaningful jobs that link to our occupations or some other bullshit. I sort of tuned out, to be honest. 

 

Clint was also going to be involved. In fact, he was the only boy taking part in the high-ropes gymnastics display. He was also doing gym and dance (or something like that) and beam work (“I’m a tightrope walker, Jackson. Beam feels like a highway.”). I didn’t really get the specifics, but it sounded complicated and cool. 

 

Anyway, I ended up standing next to the pool, in a lifeguard hoodie that school had somehow afforded to make for me (I don’t know how; it’s not like we had enough money for a whiteboard or anything in the room itself), and stepping back whenever there was a splash to try and stop it getting wet within ten minutes of arriving on poolside, because  _ whyyyyyyyyy _ . Wet hoodies suck. Unless you’re slapping someone with them; then it’s fun.

 

But that’s beside the point. The pool was sweltering, and I could feel sweat running down my back. But taking it off would expose the scars on my arms and I was under instruction to wear the hoodie for as long as possible.

 

And answer questions from over-eager parents, apparently. At the moment, a nice lesbian couple from Russia were asking me about the Music department - I’m not sure why they didn’t visit the band room, but whatever. I tried to answer their questions as well as I could, but, being completely tone-deaf, this was slightly difficult. I also had to keep half an eye on the pool in case anyone drowned, which would be unfortunate: I’d lose my license. 

 

The nice couple left and an incredibly overprotective pair of mother-hen parents approached, practically shielding their small daughter from anything and everything.

 

Oh, boy. This was going to be good. I forced myself to keep the relaxed, cheerful look on my face that I’d had for the last twenty minutes.

 

Geez, only twenty minutes. Only an hour and ten to go before my shift finished (the freshmen finished in ten minutes, but I had to lifeguard the junior ‘new swimmers’ as well as the sophomores and seniors, who were rolled into one slot as there were fewer of them). 

 

“So, you work as a lifeguard?”

 

I nodded, keeping one eye trained on the pool as a particularly small kid began to flag slightly. “Uh, yeah. I swim and have done for quite some time, so this seemed like a good thing to get into.” 

 

They smiled slightly. I braced myself slightly for the inevitable. “And they allow students to supervise without any adults? Is that safe?” Whoop, there it is.

 

I tried very hard not to bristle. “Not usually, but I’ve got a high-level lifeguarding qualification, the same one as the teachers need, actually, and I’m quite a good swimmer anyway, so I’m strong enough to haul someone out whose over twice my weight.”

 

They nodded uncertainly. “They don’t think that you may get distracted?” 

 

I gave a small shrug. “Well, I have ADHD, so I’m probably the most likely to get distracted in the whole school, but to pass your training you have to lifeguard a decent slot with a supervisor, so, again, the qualification sort of covers that.” 

 

Another nod. “So, the safety here is good? We’d love Allie to learn how to swim, but none of the municipals that we’ve been to feel like anyone would notice you struggling.” 

 

I forced a tight smile. “I wouldn’t worry. Sports classes are not that big and you are divided according to ability, so the teacher keeps the closest eye on the non-swimmers or first-year swimmers. Plus, the lanes are organised so the weakest swimmers are on the outside and can grab onto the wall if they need to, so nobody drowns.” 

 

They nodded again, and gave polite(ish) thanks before hustling their precious Allie on to explore the school a bit more.

 

How the hell was I going to survive the day? I mean, at least swimming was only the morning slot, but I’d agreed to stay and watch Clint’s gym in the afternoon, and he’d agreed to watch me when I was actually ‘performing’ (lifeguarding is boring if you’re doing it: watching someone else is like watching paint dry).

 

But before then, survival. 

 

I turned with a small smile to the next set of curious parents, and tried to ignore the sweat dripping down my back.

 

o0O0o

 

I shed my hoodie in the changing rooms and yanked on my poolside net-material-thing shirt, forcing the hat to stay on over my unruly and too-long hair that only succeeded in wedging it firmly in front of my eyes. I sighed and shoved it back up underneath the hat, reminding myself to get a haircut (read: give myself one with a pair of scissors. Nobody ever notices anyway).

 

I wrapped my goggles twice around my wrist and walked out onto poolside, sitting down on the bench, wedged between two other swimmers. I glanced out at the viewing area, impressed to see just about every seat taken. Apparently they’d promised a good display. Personally, I thought that watching swimming was great, but literally everyone I talked to said it was insufferably boring and the pool was always boiling hot (I mean, fair).

 

We did a short warm up before the races started, with smart drills to make us look fancy.

 

Eventually I heard the voice over the loudspeaker call for swimmers in ‘event 1, boys 50m freestyle, to go to the whipping area’. I felt a small shudder at the name. It always creeped me out a bit. At my first gala, I’d wondered if it was actually for whipping. It wasn’t, obviously, but the name did still freak me out. 

 

I didn’t hear the gasps of horror when I took my shirt off to reveal the long scars down my back, but I could feel the questioning gazes from the parents as I walked over to the corner that was designated as whip. I sighed inwardly.  _ And this is why you don’t put the scarred kid in front of the parents _ . Unfortunately for the school, I was their best swimmer, though. So it was one or the other, really. And in the end they chose to have me, unlike last year, when I’d practically been locked away during Open Day under the guise of ‘standing in the swim kit room and answering questions’, when the kit room wasn’t on the tour and I was only visited by two families in the whole day.

 

It was a quick gala, with most of the announcements for show: there was only one heat for each event. The calling-up just made us sound a bit more professional. The first race was always good fun, since it didn’t matter how quick you were, there would be likely less than a second separating you and your competitors because the race was so short. 

 

Less than half an hour later, I was finally free. 

 

o0O0o

 

As I entered the gym, there was a pretty large crowd already gathered around the mats (floor area?), waiting for the gymnasts to start their routines. I caught Clint’s eye from where I was standing at the edge of the cluster. He grimaced as he chalked up his hands at the edge of the area and stepped onto the performance area. He quickly went into a series of flips (which scared the shit out of me) and then dropped to the ground (once again, scaring the shit out of me). He did a weird press-up thing before turning it into one of those cool leg rotations whe he kept his hands on the ground. I wasn’t ever going to admit it to his face, but he was pretty good, doing three neat forward rolls and jumping upwards, twisting in the air with his body straight and landing neatly on his feet before doing another backflip, then leaping so high that it shouldn’t really have been possible and executing a perfect double somersault, before doing that standy-uppy thing that gymnasts do with their arms in the air to thunderous applause. 

 

I applauded as loudly as I could over the prospective parents and students. Clint caught my eye again and actually smiled before wandering over to me. “Hey, how’s being bugged by helicopter parents?” He grinned while saying this, slapping me on the shoulder with his chalked hands and leaving a smudgy white mark on my hoodie. I glared at him. 

 

“I dunno, why don’t you ask a little louder and get mugged? Also, don’t you have more stuff to do?” 

 

He shrugged. “In a minute. We’ve gotta watch the girls do their floor routines first, then there’s a rhythmic routine, which is pretty cool. I never really got the hang of waving ribbons about, though.” 

 

“Huh. Thought you’d make an excellent ribbon-twirler.”

 

He fixed me with a Look. I only grinned innocently, rubbing the chalk out of my sleeve. 

 

He patted me on the other shoulder and shrugged. “Better get to where I need to be before someone commits a murder,” he said, keeping his fucking face so straight I could’ve almost been fooled into thinking that he hadn’t done it on purpose, until he gave just the tiniest, but evillest, smirk that I’d ever seen and walking off. 

 

I flipped him the bird (subtly) when he sat down and rubbed at the chalk now in both sleeves of my hoodie. 

 

The girls’ routines were pretty good, but they didn’t pull as much extreme shit as Clint had. I liked the rhythmic, though. The twirling ribbons were pretty hypnotic, no matter how skeptical Clint was about it. I could’ve questioned their music taste, however; who the fuck chooses a Nicki Minaj song for rhythmic gymnastics??? (I say that as if I have the faintest idea about anything involved in the sport).

 

Then they dragged the beam out onto the mats, and, after a particularly talented girl who couldn’t be more than five foot finished a fiery, if slightly repetitive routine that involved a lot of twirling and no flips, it was Clint stepping up to the mat again, and the whole room went quiet. The rest of the crowd clearly knew that Clint was the best performer here (I once again say that as if I have have the faintest of ideas about anything to do with gymnastics).

 

Unlike the girl before him, he stops a few metres away from the beam, before running forwards into one of those weird cartwheel-things in which you end up backwards (round-off?) and springing upwards, closing his hands around the beam and using the momentum from his run and turning it into a backflip, landing on his feet smack in the middle of the beam. 

 

The crowd goes wild, but he’s barely even started. He jumped along the beam in a move that I thought only girls could pull off (like a weird skip thing), before jumping and landing on his hands with his legs straight in the air. His legs spread outwards and inward before he flipped again onto his feet (Pike? Trout? Bream? It’s a fish, I think), not even wobbling for a second. He did one more cartwheel-y thing before gracefully leaping off in a somersault and landing with his arms outstretched into a dramatic bow. I tried to contain my snicker, because that move there was pure circus. 

 

After Clint left the area, one of the gym teachers bustled on and thanked all of the prospectives for watching. As they all filed out, Clint ran over to me. “How did my beam go? It’s not usually a thing for guys, but they made an exception. I know it was short, but the girls and their rhythmic took up almost all of the allotted time and not many boys do gym anyway, and-”

 

I slugged him half-heartedly in the arm to make him shut the hell up. “You did good. Please say we can leave now.” 

 

He nodded. “Lemme wash my hands quick.” He darted off to the nearest bathroom while I waited, coming back with hands that were no longer covered in chalk.

 

We wandered out to the school gates together, signed out, then on to the coffee shop at the end of the block, where we parted ways for the night. 

 

o0O0o

 

Autumn made its finale in an explosion of brilliant colour that made most people coo and gasp and me shudder, before finally giving way to the stark, barren state of winter. 

It was freezing as I trudged my way to where I was supposed to be meeting Clint,  a block away from school.  _ Supposed to be _ . 

 

My head jerked backwards and forwards of its own accord, trying to catch sight of the little shit. I jumped up and down a few times, puffing air into my hands. It was the first hard frost of the year, and  _ jesus _ , it was cold. 

 

My breath huffed in front of me in a billowing cloud, briefly obscuring my vision.

 

Clint was still nowhere to be seen, and I was starting to get worried. My eyes flickered around the alley again, trying and trying to see if anything could have happened to him. There: a spot next to the dodgy dumpster. There was a couple of red spots on the ground and a few white scratch marks on the dumpster. A kidnapping?

 

It could be. 

 

It could be, and was probably, my overactive abused imagination, but if I was right… 

 

Clint was in a shit-ton of trouble. 

 

I walked over to the dumpster to try and get a better look at the marks. Yep, definitely not a cat just scratching at stuff like cats do. I splayed my hand over the marks. They were definitely the right width to have been made by a human, then. 

 

The only question was, was it Clint?

 

I glanced at the spots, which were definitely blood, then peered around the back of the dumpster to find a dirty scrap of paper wedged between it and the wall.

 

I tugged at it gently until it came loose, one damp corner tearing off in the process.

 

I very carefully unfolded it onto the ground, realising that it wasn’t a sheet of paper after all.

 

It was a flyer, slightly soggy from the rain.

 

Nevertheless, the words ‘Carson’s Circus of Travelling Wonders’ was still clearly legible on the front.

 

My blood ran cold. 

 

o0O0o

 

I ran all the way to the library, cannoning inside and practically throwing myself down at one of the computers. 

 

_ School _ , a voice in my head hissed. 

 

_ Fuck school _ , I thought back. _ Clint’s in trouble.  _

 

I opened Google and typed in ‘Carson’s circus New York’, and the date.

 

The first page to come up was a cheerful web page advertising the circus. It gave the venue and dates of the next few performances. 

 

I checked the name of the park several times before closing my tab and dashing off at a run. The performance was tonight. Hopefully they’d be setting up by now, or even  _ set _ up if I was lucky. 

 

Not that luck was my strong suit, I mused as I leapt out of the way of an oncoming bus that seemed to want to splat me, and continued running, despite turning my still-weaker ankle during the awkward manoeuvre. 

 

A sore ankle could wait. Who knew if Clint could?

 

I just hoped that the flyer was left by him, that it wasn’t a plant so that I went off on the wrong track. 

 

It was too late now: the field was just at the end of this block. 

 

I vaulted the fence with some pride, and continued to run towards the half-assembled big top in the middle of the field. 

 

I ran past the caravans into the big top, ignoring all of the angry shouts of circus performers around me. I ended up outside the ring, searching desperately for any sign of Clint or maybe something suggesting archery, like a target.

 

A whip cracked somewhere behind me and I flinched on instinct.

 

There was a laugh, and I spun to see a portly man in a somewhat garish ringmaster’s getup walking my way, whip in hand. 

 

“So, what do we have here? Another runaway; a stray to jump onto the bandwagon of circus life?” he asked, tone just bordering on derisive.

 

I bristled slightly and squared my shoulders. “I’m actually looking for a friend. ‘Bout yay tall,” I gestured around my chin, “blondish, bad attitude?” 

 

The ringmaster,  _ Carson _ , I remembered, from the poster, looked a little thoughtful. “Little shit, really,” he asked, then continued. “Comes looking for a home and only complains, steals from me and then calls archery his own? Sound about right to you? Because, if that’s the case, then he’s here for tonight’s performance. One day only, the return of  _ The Amazing Hawkeye _ .” He made a gesture with his hands in a showy way, as if to an audience. “He has debts to pay to me. I gave him a roof over his head and security, and the little shit still runs off as soon as he finds it convenient. No respect,” he declared soundly to finish.

 

I nodded, forcing myself to keep my tone light. “Sounds like him. I’d just like to check in. Need to phone school to tell them he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere, ya get me?” 

 

Carson’s eyes narrowed. “You a performer?” he asked suddenly.

 

I snorted. “I’m a swimmer. Not very good in a  _ sand _ ring, I have to say.”

 

Carson smiled tightly, clearly unamused by the quip. “Well, I’m sorry, but you’re trespassing. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

“This is council land, not yours, to order me off. It belongs to you as much as it belongs to me.” 

 

He smiled again, and shook his head. “That’s not how this works, young man. Please, leave before I have to force you.”

 

“I’m not leaving until I’ve seen Clint.”

 

Carson smiled angelically at me. “Well, it looks like you’re staying for a while, then.” Then he clicked his fingers and I felt a hit on the back of my head.

 

I felt my mouth make an incoherent sound and then everything went dark.

 

o0O0o

 

I woke up in a room covered with hay and straw that smelt like shit. Literal shit. Yay.

 

My head pulsed and throbbed, and I was struck with a wave of dizziness and nausea as I sat up, so bad that I let out a groan and flopped back down again, despite the voice in my head that was clamouring for me to find Clint. Or really, that was just Clint’s voice.

 

“Dude, what the fuck?” Speak of the Devil and he shall appear, apparently. With a voice as woozy as mine. “Why aren’t you at school, you fucking moron?” 

 

Did he just call me a Mormon? No, I don’t think so. “You didn’t appear at the meeting spot,” I replied, voice coming out slurred and hoarse. “I was worried.”

 

Clint’s eyebrow furrowed darkly. “Dude, if you went after me every time you were worried about me being in danger, you’d’ve been shot dead in Ukraine at least twice by now.”

 

I froze in the middle of whatever I was doing. “Dude, what the fuck?” 

 

I don’t actually think that Clint knew what he’d said either because he was swearing repeatedly under his breath, before stopping suddenly with a pained half-snarl. “Ignore that.”

 

I glared over at him. “I physically can’t. What the fuck do you mean  _ shot twice  _ and also  _ in Ukraine _ ?! And also why are you upset about this?”

 

He sighed deeply and slowly brought up a hand to rub at his face wearily. “This isn’t something I want to drag you into.  _ Any _ of it. Seriously, why are you here?”

 

“Why are  _ you _ ?” 

 

He snorted. “I was attacked behind a dumpster and dragged here. You?” 

 

“Found the flyer you left behind said dumpster and looked it up, then ran all the way here.” 

 

He snorted slightly. “Good one. Now you’ve got a concussion, well, probably, judging by the amount of blood on your face, and I’m, well I’m just  _ peachy _ .” 

 

I lifted a hand to my face, confused to find it sticky. “I get that you’re trying to distract me, but can we get back to the being shot twice in Ukraine part, because I still want answers.”

 

He sighed deeply. “Can I answer that when we’re  _ not  _ both half-dead and stuck in here, ‘cause it might take a while to explain.” 

 

“Might it?”

 

He shook his head wearily. “Please, Percy. Not now.” He sounded so goddamn  _ defeated  _ that there was no way I could push further.

 

Besides, the world was starting to spin a little anyway, and the hay that I was sprawled out on was suddenly very comfortable.

 

I almost thought I could hear Clint yelling my name as I slipped into dark, peaceful unconsciousness. 

 

o0O0o

 

I woke slowly, a hand repeatedly slapping my face. 

 

“Wake  _ up _ , goddammit!”

 

I forced open leaden eyelids to blink up at Clint, who was leaning over me, hand raised to slap my face again. I felt myself squint slightly as his face came in and out of focus. “What?” I slurred, exhausted from just opening my eyes. 

 

Clint exhaled heavily. “Thank  _ fuck _ , you’re alive. You gotta stay awake. I think your head is worse than I thought. No,  _ seriously _ ,” he slapped my face again as my eyes drifted shut, “you’ll die, and then I won’t have anyone to talk to in this shithole.” 

 

“Tired,” I mumbled, brain foggy.

 

“I  _ know _ , but you gotta stay awake.”

 

“Hurts.” My head throbbed and ached. In fact, my whole body throbbed and ached, but my head was worse. 

 

“Me too, but I have no plans of  _ dying _ right now!” 

 

I groaned and rolled halfway over onto my side, ignoring Clint’s alarmed protests as he scrambled away slightly in case I hurled. I tried to push myself up to sitting, and immediately regretted it, as dizziness and nausea swept over me, and a stabbing pain erupted through my skull, like a spike being driven through my brain. I crumpled back onto the hay, one hand immediately going to cradle my head, eyelids fluttering as I fought to cling to consciousness. 

 

_ Fuck _ , this was bad. 

 

“ _ Dude _ , do you have a death wish? You need to lie still. You need an ambulance, not that Carson’ll call one, not to just jump up and save the world. Lie still, I mean it. I’ll tell them that I’ll do whatever they want.”

 

“No.” The word was the strongest I had uttered so far. I just managed to roll over to face Clint without passing out before repeating myself. “Don’t.” 

 

Clint looked worse than he had last time I’d been awake. His hair clung to his forehead, and blood and grime caked his arms, like he’d been beaten in the mud. His face was pale, ghostly, even. I recognised the look from seeing it stare me in the mirror: it was blood loss. 

 

Not that I was in a position to judge. 

 

“Yeah,” he began, voice somewhat derisive. “And you’re going to stop me. I’m going to be held hostage by a guy who can’t even sit up.” 

 

“And you’re in such a position to judge.” 

 

“Hey, I can sit up without dying, so I’m doing better than you.”

 

“Do you have to rub it in?” 

 

“I’m going to do what they want. They won’t beat me up any more, because I need to be able to perform tonight. You, I can’t say the same for. They’ll say you got hit by a beam when they set up the top or something. They’ll get out of it, and you’ll be dead. I’ll be fine. You shouldn’t have come.” His voice went hoarse by the end, not that I was surprised. He hardly ever said much more than a sentence at any one time. 

 

Light slashed at my eyes suddenly. I shut them and groaned against the feeling that my skull was being caved in two. 

 

A voice that I didn’t recognise spoke softly. “Clint?” 

 

Clint murmured an affirmative. 

 

“We need to get you cleaned up so you can check you know tonight’s routine.”

 

“Percy needs medical attention. He’s got a concussion.” 

 

“I’ll see what we can do, ‘kay?” 

 

There was a slight swish as the tent flap closed, and we were bathed in blissful half-dark again. I could open my eyes without agony. 

 

“Percy?”

 

“Yeah?” My voice was all raspy and horrible, and sounded weak even to my ears. 

 

“She’s gonna help, yeah? Laura’s pretty nice on the whole.” 

 

“‘Kay,” I murmured, trying to make it sound like I wasn’t falling asleep again.

 

“Stay awake, yeah?” 

 

“‘M tryin’.” The words slurred together. Even I could hardly tell what I’d just said.

 

“Do I have to come over and slap you again?” 

 

I tried to shake my head ‘no’, but that was a huge mistake, as I discovered, yellow sparks exploding across my vision. My ears rang and I maybe lost consciousness for a couple of seconds. I don’t even know.

 

Next thing I knew, I heard Clint shouting my name. It sounded like he was calling from miles away.

 

Everything blurred suddenly into sharpened focus. Clint’s raised voice was suddenly loud enough to hurt my ears. “Dude, wake the fuck up! We have ten minutes until the rehearsal, and your impending doom, but let’s ignore that.”

 

I lifted a leaden hand to wave at him, and maybe get him to shut up slightly. 

 

The tent flap opened again. I shut my eyes against the wash of pain the brightened light brought. I might’ve winced or hissed or made some kind of noise, but I wasn’t aware of it. 

 

Laura’s soft voice called out again. “We won’t move you guys out of here yet, but we’ll do our best.” 

 

Clint and her spoke in soft tones for a short while that I couldn’t discern.

 

Eventually the tent flap closed and I opened my eyes, slowly. Very slowly. Ayy, my eyes didn’t try to kill themselves - result. 

 

Laura came over to me first, at some slightly loud and angry insistence from Clint. 

 

“Ok,” she said. “This looks pretty bad. I’m not going to ask you to sit up, but I am going to need you to roll onto your front so that I can get at this mess on the back of your head, OK? I’ll help you. One, two, three.” 

 

She gently rolled me as I also made a slight effort to help her. 

 

So now I was face-down in the muck. Yay! 

 

I winced as I felt her cloth-covered hand dab at my head. Was there even skin there anymore?

 

I decided that I didn’t want to know as she continued cleaning.

 

Eventually she wrapped a thick bandage about twenty million times around my head, before tying it off and moving on to Clint, who complained bitterly but eventually lay down on his front like I had.

 

Laura dabbed at the long slashes down Clint’s back and wrapped him in a thin-ish layer of gauze, before scrubbing at his filthy arms until he looked somewhat clean. “The routine’s pretty simple; it’s the horseback one. Do you remember it?” 

 

Clint made a muffled sound of what I assumed was agreement into the dirt. 

 

Laura turned around to face me as Clint got up. “I’m not sure what Carson wants with you, but watch out, okay? We’ll be back in half an hour and try not to fall asleep.”

 

They left. Time seemed to swell and rush, sometimes going fast and sometimes incredibly slowly. 

 

The tent flap swung open again. I opened my eyes and turned my gaze up to the three guys that had appeared, yellowish spots blossoming but without the wash of agony.

 

Oh. They weren’t Clint and Laura.

 

Two took an arm each and the third acted as moral support. They pretty much dragged me out into the sun, tying a scratchy blindfold over my eyes (oh, so that’s what the third guy was for).

 

I sort of paddled a little with my legs, trying in vain to support my own weight even as I hadn’t got a clue where they were dragging me or when they were going to change direction. 

 

I was roughly pushed onto my knees in what felt like sand and my somewhat limp hands were tied around a splintering wooden pole. One of the guys ripped the blindfold off my face as if he was a magician (Maybe he was a magician? It was the circus after all.) and revealed Clint on horseback, wearing a blindfold that looked nicer than mine and holding a bow and quiver. 

 

As I watched he drew and fired, missing the bullseye by millimetres.

 

There was a crack from just behind me. 

 

Holy fuck, they had a whip.  _ A fucking whip _ . Okay, that is slightly terrifying. Ever so slightly. Not to mention, like, painful.

 

Clint jerked the horse’s reins and brought it to a dead stop, head snapping in the direction of the sound. He yanked off his blindfold, eyes slightly wild as his gaze landed on me, kneeling in the sand, tied to a post, presumably with an intimidating guy behind me who I knew was holding a whip and knew how to use it.

 

Clint’s mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing as the whip cracked down again, instead taking a deep breath, replacing the blindfold, and digging his heels gently into the horse’s sides to restart the routine. 

 

He brought his bow up to his face, before stretching his arm out and bending the other so that the string came to his cheek. He didn’t move an inch, even as the horse bucked slightly as the poor thing did a mis-stride around the edge of the arena. He released the arrow, this time hitting the very edge of the bullseye. 

 

The whip came down again. “Sloppy!” barked a voice. I could recognise Carson speaking, even though I’d only heard him once before. Some people just sound like they need a punch in the face. “Too slow! What’s happened to you,  _ Hawkeye _ ? Is that really what the ‘World’s Greatest Marksman’ has to offer?”

 

Clint’s voice was quiet when he spoke, reining in the horse again, slightly less viciously this time, but jerking the blindfold off as swiftly as before. “I’ve never ridden this horse before. I need to get used to the stride patterns. You’ve changed the size of the ring. Not to mention that I’ve only used this particular bow three times before,  _ and  _ you’re holding my friend hostage down there!” 

 

The whip slashed at my back again. I put my head down to try and stop Clint from seeing that I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. 

 

“No answering back,” Carson snapped. 

 

The whip came down yet again, and I did my best to contain the flinch, but probably failed miserably, let’s be real here. Looking back on it, I really don’t understand how I could have any coherent thoughts during the entire experience.

 

“Get to it, then!” 

 

Hooves drummed in the sand as Clint urged the creature faster this time, leaning forwards over its neck, before sitting up tall and drawing his bow again. 

 

The horse tripped as he released the arrow, causing the shot to go way wide and him to drop the bow in order to grab at the pommel of the saddle to stay mounted. 

 

Apparently a mistake (bad luck, really) was worth three whips before Clint had even regained his centre of balance. 

 

He had to dismount to retrieve his bow, carefully brushing the sand off and gently patted the horse as if to tell it that it wasn’t its fault.

 

He turned to look at me (after taking his blindfold off, of course. Whoops, probably should’ve mentioned that - he did that before dismounting, as you can’t usually find something if you can’t see it.) before he got back in the saddle, and flinched even more than I did as the whip came down for what felt like the millionth time. He took a deep, steadying breath before swinging himself into the saddle, and performed the manoeuvre without the blindfold, which made Carson absolutely furious.

 

I thought I was going to pass out when the henchman (?) behind me finished. 

 

Clint’s voice had an edge when he spoke. “Sorry, but I was just doing it once like that so that I could help the horse get her stride in without me lolloping about like a sack of potatoes. I’ll just go back and put this on,” he waved the blindfold, “and see what happens when I give it another go. Jesus.” 

 

The arrow hit dead centre. 

 

“Again!” Carson barked. I flinched in preparation for the blow that (shockingly) didn’t come. 

 

Oh, there it was, I thought somewhat hysterically as Clint hesitated for the briefest of moments before going again. 

 

He trained for another half hour or similar (look, I wasn’t going to be measuring time well, was I?), before the ropes around my wrists were suddenly jerked away and I collapsed flat on my face in the sand, having long since stopped actively trying to hold myself up under my own steam.

 

Carson’s voice echoed through the tent, “Take away the kid. Hawk, I want you to do this ten more times.  _ Perfectly _ . You hear?”

 

The sounds of hooves dully echoed against sand as I was dragged away by the henchmen (I mean they were technically henchmen) and everything went dark again.

 

o0O0o

 

I woke up the next day to my entire body screaming in pain and the surprise that I was somehow at home. I sat up, ignoring the gashes on my back and turned to look at the dresser. A little yellow post-it note looked back.

 

_ Hey Percy, _

 

_ Laura and I brought you home after the performance. We hope you had  _ _ fun _ .  _ We both got home safe and Laura’s going out of town for a few day’s to visit her mom. We’re sorry that that pipe fell on your head and the circus have  _ _ apologised  _ _ too. See you at school tomorrow, or maybe the day after. You should rest a bit. _

 

_ Clint (and Laura who wrote the note for me) _

 

That was surprisingly nice of the little squirt.

 

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, groaning as my head swam. 

 

Ok, so that was probably a terrible idea, but hey.

 

So, breakfast. Maybe I was feeling like shit, but I was gonna eat something. My stomach felt like a shrivelled prune.

 

I took a steadying breath and just sort of went for it. My brain shut off for a solid two seconds, and the next thing I knew, I was sorta clinging to my dresser like it held all of the answers to everything. 

 

I pushed off it and stood upright, feeling pretty pleased with myself. 

 

After a short while, I made it into the kitchen. 

 

“Percy?” Mom demanded, eyes snapping up from her laptop. “Why are you up?”

 

“I’m hungry.”

 

“Oh, Percy. I could’ve brought you something! Just sit down, take your time. What would you like?”

 

“I don’t mind. Could do with a drink, though.”

 

A glass of water appeared quite suddenly in front of me. “PB+J okay? High calorie, and all that.”

 

“That’s fine. What time is it?” 

 

Mom paused slightly in her whirlwind-ing. “Oh, about half past one.”

 

I set my glass down. “What?” My sore brain whirred tiredly to try and catch up. “Half- wait, half  _ one _ ?” 

 

“You needed to sleep. I’m not going to ask what happened, but I’m not stupid. I’m just glad that you’re alright. Do you know how I felt when I got a call from school yesterday to say that you weren’t there? And then when your friend appeared, with that other girl carrying you, half-dead? You could’ve died, and I wouldn’t have known until I got a call from the police.” She stood up to grab my sandwich before hesitating. “Do you remember my friend Naomi?”

 

I winced as I tried to remember through the fog of pain in my mind. “The nurse?”

 

“Yeah,” Mom brushed a piece of hair behind her ear, “I was wondering if we should take you to her, to you know, get you checked out. Clint’s friend said that she thought you’d be okay, but I’d just like to make sure. She owes me a couple of favours from when she was pregnant.” 

o0O0o

 

We arrived at Naomi Solace’s apartment a little after two: she only lived a block away, and we left as soon as I was feeling able. Mom led me as carefully as she could across the New York streets, acting as if I hadn’t been travelling on them for my whole life. 

 

When we got there, yeah, I was nervous, and, yeah, I might have been slightly hyperventilating. I turned to Mom. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I don’t know what to s-”

 

Naturally, I got cut off by a blond fourteen year old opening the door. “Hey, are you Sally?”

 

I bit back a retort as Mom entered their apartment. “Yes, and this is my son Percy.”

 

He beamed brightly at me. “I’m Will.”

 

The question was out before I’d even thought it through. “Why aren’t you at school?”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Why aren’t you?” 

 

“I’m concussed.”

 

“I’m homeschooled.” He maintained his raised eyebrow for an unnaturally long amount of time. “Anyway. If you’re really concussed, then I’d better go get Mom. I assume that’s who you’re here for?”

 

“That’d be great, thanks,” Mom cut in.

 

The kid practically bounced out of the room, before reappearing with a woman about Mom’s age in tow. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, and she was wearing some sort of apron. She clapped her hands together, said “Sally! So, what can I do for you?”  and pulled a pair of glasses out of nowhere.

 

Mom glanced at me briefly. “Percy here got a concussion yesterday. Would it be okay for you just to check that he’ll be okay? You know that taking him to the hospital would be more expensive than useful.”

 

Naomi nodded before leading me over to their sofa. “Now, how did you get the concussion, dear?” Her sweet southern accent came out and washed over my ears. 

 

Right. “I, uh,” I fumbled, “I tripped and hit my head on a wall.” 

 

Mom leaned forward “I thought a pipe fell and hit you on the head?”

 

I nodded. “Right. Then I tripped and hit the wall.”

 

Mom shot me that skeptical ‘We’ll Talk About It Later’ look that all moms seem to have. Okay, I was going to die later, but whatever, that depended on me not dying now.

 

Naomi nodded slightly, as if just casually filing away my enormous lie and ignoring it. “Right then. And what happened after you hit your head?” 

 

That one was easy. “Oh, I passed out.”

 

“How long, do you think?”

 

“A few minutes?” It hadn’t been as long as I thought, I realised. But minutes was still a long time to be knocked out. “But then I was so exhausted that I passed out again and that was for like 22 hours.” 

 

Naomi’s expression of alarm was concerning; it seemed to say  _ how are you alive? _

 

I tried to ignore it. My brain hurt enough as it was. I didn’t need to add ‘you should be dead’ to the mix. It might overheat and explode.

 

She shot my mom a look. “How much water did you give him?” It wasn’t a phrase of concern or, at least, I don’t think it was. It sounded more like she was surprised. 

 

“A full glass when he woke up and a couple when he vaguely came to throughout the day.” I don’t remember coming to?

 

She nodded slightly. “That’s good. Will, please grab Percy a glass of water before he passes out again.” 

 

Mom looked alarmed.

 

Naomi raised her hands reassuringly. “Much more and he’d have been sick at the time, but now he’s been up a few hours he’ll start to feel worse. Best to keep on the safe side, especially with head injuries.” She glanced down at me before calling, “And get some of the special flapjack from the cupboard, honey!”

 

Will’s shout of “Yes, mom!” was easily heard even through like six or whatever walls. God, that boy’s voice was loud. 

 

Naomi gave me a quick once-over before pronouncing me likely to survive. “You just need to eat a bit and drink some more water and you’ll probably be fine.” 

 

It was at this moment that Will hurried back in, holding a piece of flapjack in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “I got it.” Okay, so apparently I was hungrier than I thought, because I grabbed the flapjack and shoved it all into my mouth in one go before downing the glass of water. 

 

I think I heard Will mutter something under his breath while I was shoving food into my mouth. Then a slightly awkward silence stretched for just under a minute. He glanced nervously at me like I might explode.

 

Well, I didn’t. Eventually Mom broke the silence. “Thanks so much, Naomi. You don’t know how much better I feel just to have him looked at by someone who knows what they’re talking about.” 

 

“It was no problem. Come talk to me again once you’ve discussed the thing I mentioned to you a little while ago.” Naomi’s smile was wide, but her eyes held some sort of deeper meaning. Fuck me if I knew though. My brain was fried enough already.

 

o0O0o

 

Three weeks later, and I was officially drowning in missed schoolwork and midterms revision. Sigh.

 

The only good thing about that was that it meant that the Christmas holidays were approaching, and, for once, I was really looking forward to the holidays. 

 

One particularly bad evening, and I was quite literally up to my eyes in haphazardly stacked books, head down and furiously trying to remember how Pythagoras worked in 3D, or whether that question would need trigonometry instead (I prayed that it didn’t: trig was even worse than Pythagoras). There was a loud rap at the door, startling me out of my maths-induced stupor. 

 

I jumped up to answer the door, to see a giant cake box with a blond mop of hair poking out above. 

 

“Hi Percy, wait, you are Percy, right? I can’t actually see you or the door number behind this goddamn thing.”

 

“Clint? Sorry, all I can see is blond hair.” 

 

“Yo.” He walked forwards, pitching the enormous box into my hands. I caught it instinctively, only realising that I’d fallen for his trick when he swanned off into the living room, giving a shocked exclamation at the pile of books on the table and leaving me to tote the enormous box into the kitchen, where I somehow managed to get it onto the worktop without overturning it. 

 

I sighed dramatically and walked back into the living room, unsurprised to see that Clint had his feet on my desk and had unceremoniously dumped most of my books on the floor. 

 

“Is that a cake box?” I asked. “And what the hell are you doing here?” 

 

Clint shrugged, rubbing a white-ish smudge further across his cheekbone. “I learned how to bake cakes this week while procrastinating SAT practise. My family is drowning in cake. Literally.”

 

“What a way to go,” I agreed, still a little confused. “So…” 

 

“Well, you could open the box and we can eat cake until we’re going to throw up, and then I’ll go home and you can go back to…” he squinted down at my open maths books, “whatever the fuck that is.” 

 

“ _ That  _ is the shit that you’ll have to deal with this time next year. Don’t crow.” 

 

I turned and went to open the cake box.

 

So, it looked a bit like a giant had done a really bad job of moulding something and got tired, so sat on it. That is to say, haphazard sponges of different sizes and in various degrees of split-ness, stuck together with far too much thick icing. That explained the icing sugar smudge on Clint’s cheek, then.

 

Tasted good, though. 

 

“Yeah, sorry it looks like shit,” Clint apologised through a large mouthful. “I’ll get better at that bit later.”

 

I shrugged. “My stomach doesn’t care what it looks like; in the end it’s all the same pile of mush.” 

 

Clint looked like he want to spit out his slice of cake. He swallowed it nevertheless before saying, “Biology revision?” 

 

“Yeah. So, how much have you done on the human digestive system?”

 

“It’s basically a pile of rope inside you and kinda gross and it’s not a good idea to throw it across a street?” 

 

I grimaced. “ _ Dude _ , I’m eating. But, yeah. It’s generally not a good idea to remove your vital organs from your body. You end up, hmm, I wonder, fucking dead.” 

 

Clint snorted crumbs inelegantly across his plate.

 

“You are a disgusting child,” I declared before bursting into laughter and doing almost the exact same thing.

 

The door creaked open. “Percy?” Mom called.

 

The two of us glanced over at the other, smeared in cake, icing and crumbs everywhere, and fell about laughing.

 

Mom couldn’t even find it in her to be cross that we’d wrecked the kitchen, abandoned my revision (not to mention Clint’s),  _ and  _ eaten almost half of the truly enormous cake in front of us. 

 

“Clint, thank you  _ so much _ for the cake, but won’t your family be wanting you back home? Plus, Percy needs to actually revise if he’s going to  _ pass  _ his midterms.” She gave me the Look, and I caved. 

 

“Fine. See you tomorrow, Clint. Thanks for the cake. Suggestion: revise and don’t bake more cake. I’m not saying it wasn’t nice, it was, but, trust me, revise.” 

 

Clint left with a wave, more cheerful than I’d seen him since the circus incident.

 

o0O0o

Mid-November, Mom started dating someone called Paul Blo(w)fis(h). He was from her writers’ group and seemed pretty nice on the whole.  _ But so did Gabe _ , came the villainous voice in my head.  _ Now look what happened _ . 

 

But I wanted Mom to be happy, so I didn’t say anything about it. 

 

Clint noticed. Of course he did. 

 

He confronted me about it in the cafeteria, casually dropping it into conversation and nearly making me choke. “So, what’s biting you in the ass? Is it the new boyfriend?” 

 

My jaw flopped slightly. I didn’t want to know how Clint had managed to find out about the person my mom had been dating for just over two weeks. “What?” 

 

Clint waved his fork distractedly. I ducked the mushy carrot that flew off the end. “Not overly tall, salt and pepper hair, sorta bookish looking, seems pretty harmless?” 

 

“Yeah,  _ I  _ know, but how do you know?” 

 

“He’s my English teacher.” I choked on my water. “He thinks we haven’t noticed but he keeps checking his phone for texts from ‘Sally’.” Clint shrugged. “It’s not that hard to connect that with your paranoid tendencies and how you were bottling something up. You’re almost as bad as when-” He cut himself off quite quickly when he realised where he was going with that statement. I was too tired to press him about it.

 

Clint sighed. “Look, he seems like a solid guy. I get how you’re feeling. I mean _ I _ wouldn’t want another adult figure that I need to learn to respect in my life. But I’m serious. He seems pretty genuine, and, if things do go south, just give me a shout and I’ll see if I can get Nat to off this one too.”

 

I shot him a watery smile as I sat there and considered it as a whole. Obviously I didn’t want Clint to hire someone to kill Paul, but he did have a point that I was, well, paranoid. Gabe had seemed just as nice at first, but then again Paul didn’t reek of cigars whenever he stepped near me, so that had to be some sort of a good thing. And, besides, Mom wouldn’t make another mistake, right? 

 

o0O0o

 

T’was the season, and somehow, Mom and Paul had gown close enough that he was invited around on Christmas Eve. Paul also brought me a present, which is more than could be said for Gabe on any occasion (Unless he thought of the hundreds of scars that he’d left on my body as gifts). It was wrapped in a sort of cheapish gold and blue paper, and crinkled whenever it moved. I glanced over at Mom giving her my best puppy eyes, and she sighed.

 

“Fine, Percy.” I grinned and ripped it open. Inside was a blob of wool. 

 

“It’s a beanie and scarf,” Paul supplied as he looked at my confused face. “I’ve seen you walking to school sometimes and it’s been pretty damn chilly recently. I wanted you to have something to wrap up warm in.” 

 

Okay, so maybe that seemed slightly creepy, but he was thinking of my health and actually put some consideration into his gift, unlike  _ somebod _ y that we used to know.

 

“Thanks,” I said, genuinely meaning it as I yanked the beanie onto my head for a picture. Damn, that was actually really comfortable. After the photo had been taken and we watched Mom open one of her own presents from Paul, it didn’t even occur to me to take it off. Kept my head nice and warm, so why not?

 

o0O0o

 

It was at 10am the next day when someone was banging loudly on the other side of our front door.

 

I groaned, but somehow managed to disentangle myself from the warm cocoon of my duvet to answer the door, trying in vain to comb a hand through my hair so it stopped dangling in front of my eyes. 

 

“Mmn?” I asked, rubbing blearily at my eyes as I swung the door open. 

 

The person on the other side didn’t wait for an invitation and just walked in, almost bulldozing me in the process and trying to burst my eardrums with his shriek of “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” and plonking yet another enormous cake box on the side in the kitchen. 

 

“Fuck me, that thing weighs a ton. Advice: don’t carry heavy fruit cake up seven flights of stairs.”

 

“Eight,” I corrected automatically. “Plus the steps up to the lobby.”

 

“Well, it was a fucking long way, okay?”

 

“Speaking of long ways to come, where’s your family?” 

 

Clint hummed under his breath for a second before responding with “Church.” 

 

I raised an eyebrow. “And they didn’t make you go?” 

 

Clint scoffed. “I said that I wasn’t really religious.” I cocked my head, eyebrows going up further. “Fine. I threatened to climb out of the window if they wanted to make me go, and warned that I might put my back out or break a leg or something, because even circus balance doesn’t help if you’re trying to carry a cake that weighs a fucking ton as well.” That sounded slightly more believable for Clint. “Look, do you want the fucking cake or not? If not, I am not taking the damn thing back with me. It’s got a bit of brandy in it, so you could probably get a fire going with it if you don’t eat it.”

 

I made a face at him. “How did you get brandy?” Clint opened his mouth to speak, but I waved a hand at him. “Nevermind. I think we want cake. I’m not saying no. What kinda cake?”

 

“The brandy was in the liquor cupboard that I may or may not have jimmied the lock for, and did I not mention that it’s a fucking heavy fruit cake?” 

 

“Why fruit cake?” 

 

Clint looked horrified. “Have you never eaten a real Christmas cake? Densest thing you’ll ever see, marzipan, royal icing, the whole fucking lot?” 

 

I shook my head. “Clint, I’m poor. Also I don’t think it’s an American tradition.” 

 

“Well, you’ve been introduced to a Christmas tradition. Well, not technically. You’re supposed to make it in like June but I did it two days ago? Maybe three.” 

 

“Well, I’m glad you did make it a couple of days ago, because having a cake made in June to eat in December sounds really fucking gross.” 

 

“Percy, language.” Mom’s tired voice chided from the corner. “And I’m sure he’s exaggerating about June.”

 

“Have you not just been listening to Clint swear like a f- goddamn sailor for the last five minutes?” 

 

“He’s a guest, Percy.” 

 

“It’s Christmas,” I objected. “I can say what I like.” 

 

“No, you can’t.”

 

I gave in. “Fine. Anyway, he brought cake.” I gestured to the large box that was, once again, perched precariously on the kitchen counter. In fact, one corner was sagging alarmingly over the edge. I reached over to shove it further onto the counter, realising that Clint had a point about its weight. 

 

“Thank you so much, Clint. Do your family mind that you’re not with them? It’s Christmas Day, after all.”

 

“Oh, they’re at church.” I could feel Mom’s skepticism from the other side of the room. “So, I decided to bring one of the cakes I made recently.”

 

“That’s nice.” Mom shot a glance at the cake box. “Is it fruit cake?”

 

Clint nodded in earnest. “It’s a,” he shut his eyes as if trying to quote something, “Mary Berry recipe.” 

 

“Oh, the British lady? Her recipes are supposed to be really good. Thank you so much for this.” Mom pulled a knife out of one of the drawers. “How about we try a bit now? Percy, can you open the box, please.” As instructed, I did revealing a white, stiff icing covering what I presumed was a cake and not a) a balloon, or b) some sort of metal weight (both of which Clint had already done to me, which was stressful). 

 

Mom handed the knife to Clint, handle first. “If you would do the honours,” she said, a slight glint to her eye. I mean, if it was a balloon, then it would explode on the person who cut it (Mom had been there that time), so…

 

Clint took it, a wry smile on his face as he made a theatrical bow, instructed us to take a step back, and threw the knife in the air, twirling it twice around his hand as it landed and swinging it straight into the cake, making a perfectly clean cut right into the middle.

 

“Showoff,” I grumbled. 

 

Clint grinned, serving up huge slabs of dense cake that looked, well, more fruit than actual cake.

 

Tasted good, though.

 

o0O0o

 

We arranged to meet up for a walk/some form of exercise a couple of days after Christmas to, and I quote, ‘actually move before I die from eating too much stodgy food.’ However, it was cold as fuck, so I wasn’t so convinced by the idea of walking through Central Park for an hour or so.

 

Apparently that was what we were going to do, though, since Clint knocked on the door wrapped up in enough clothes to survive a Siberian winter and practically dragged me from the warmth of the apartment.

 

Halfway across the city, I tuned to him struck by a thought. “Why did you get shot twice in Ukraine over the summer though?” He shot me a funny look. “Hey, you chose the walk, I choose the topic of conversation, you answer: no evasions.”

 

Clint squinted at me. “What? When did I say that I got shot twice in Ukraine? That definitely did not happen.” I shot him Mom’s classic ‘cut the bullshit’ look. “Okay, maybe I was in Ukraine, and maybe I did get shot, but you are definitely not allowed to tell anyone. And that includes your mom, no matter how much I love Sally.”

 

“You’re still evading. I can keep a secret, idiot.” 

 

“Sure, you can.” Clint rolled his eyes. “Fine, I was working.”

 

I squinted in disgust. “You have a job?  _ You  _ have a job.” 

 

“Yeah, kinda. Don’t act so surprised.” Clint ploughed on into the park.

 

“And it means that you’re getting shot?” Clint ignored my question, just walking onwards. “ _ Jesus. _ ”

 

“Yeah,” Clint mumbled, hands shoved into the pockets of his thick coat, breath puffing out in front of him.

 

“What kind of job is  _ that _ ?” 

 

Clint’s shoulders sloped inwards, making him look even smaller than he really was. He sighed heavily, huffing a cloud like a short, blond dragon. “One that pays very, very well.”

 

“You’re evading.”

 

“So, I may or may not have a new foster family. And I may or may not have been living on my own for the past few months. And I may or may not have been taking jobs that pay well enough to get myself a dodgy little apartment in a part of town where nobody asks questions. And they may or may not be rather on the dangerous side. May or may not, of course.”

 

I raised my eyebrows. “Back to the job?”

 

Clint stopped and swallowed, as if he didn’t really want to say it. “Okay, I guess there’s no way to sugar-coat it. And you’ve met Nat, so… Yeah.”

 

“Wait, you and Nat do the same job?”

 

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We, um, take jobs to utilise the, ahem, skill sets that our childhoods provided us with. So the circus with me, and some sort of secret assassin school for her.”

 

I would have done a spit take if I had a drink. “Assassin? Shit.” Somehow it didn’t actually surprise me as much as I had expected, but hearing it spelled out did still make it kinda shocking.

 

Clint sighed again, hunching down again as if he thought I was going to run off screaming or something.

 

It took a moment, but I did eventually get over my shock and shoved him into the snow. He was clearly not expecting it, because his freaky circus balance didn’t help him and he toppled straight over, sitting up and spluttering. “So,” I asked, “you and Nat meet while you were both tryna kill the same person or what?”

 

He laughed, socking me in the face with a snowball and his goddamn perfect aim. “No, actually. Nat came to the circus with her freaky assassin school. Something about learning what ‘skills’ are and how gym or dance could be linked to killing in the form of acrobatics. Something about how if you fall, you’ll die, too. I mean, Carson never had a safety net.” 

 

I could believe that.

 

The mood suddenly darkened again, leaving the two of us silent for a moment as snow began to flutter to the ground around us, painting a silent picture of a whitened world.

 

I bent to pick up some snow, only to receive a cold, wet lump down the back of my neck.

 

Ever manly, I shrieked and slapped at the hand, doing an awkward wiggle dance as the snow snaked a cold trail down my back. “You little shit!” 

 

Okay, so I may have got a few filthy looks from the old ladies that were around us, but I was only expressing my current feelings. 

 

As the mature nearly-adult that I was, I decided to let it go and continue on our nice, mature walk across the park.

 

Who am I kidding? I launched myself at him. Nearly cracked my head on the bench, but I didn’t, so that was chill and I could go on wrestling my small friend’s face into the deeper drift behind said bench.

 

Clint sputtered furiously, turning around to retaliate. Unfortunately he succeeded because I was too busy killing myself with laughter upon seeing the snow crystals in his eyebrows.

 

Eventually we stopped trying to murder each other, mainly because we were both too out of breath from laughing harder than I think I’d ever laughed before. 

 

Mom simply raised a quizzical eyebrow upon seeing the two snow-covered and sopping wet boys knocking on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, 10k in an approximately four month time period,


	6. 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year of filler, but the main plot finally starts to kick in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, we're back with quite a short chapter, but it does start to set up the plot.

\- 2013

After Christmas came and went, the joys of finals revision came upon me and ruined my life. Mom was trying to convince me that a swimming scholarship wasn’t all that good if I didn’t have the grades to be accepted into a university and get said scholarship. So, yeah, life was fun for pretty much all of spring. I was inundated (I’m not sure how I remember that particular SAT vocab word) with tests and work and tests and work. It was my literal definition of hell.

Clint was also drowning in prep for his (first) SAT as well, so all was not well in Free-time-and-Friendship-ville as neither of us had enough time for anything other than work.

January and February passed by, cold as ever, and my arse freezing off. Then March arrived and with it my college acceptance letters. That’s right, plural. I know, I was just as shocked when they arrived, especially when I found out that one was from one in Virginia: out of state. I had an out of state offer to study Marine Biology with a swimming scholarship and bursary. It was a goddamn miracle.

I was over the moon. Clint was less so, but it was understandable; he was essentially losing one of his few allies in a world that had proven that it was constantly out to get him. I couldn’t blame him at all for how much he grumbled when he found out.

“The University of Virginia? That’s a long way.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m still going to be on the East Coast; it’s not like I’m in Alaska or, I dunno, Oregon.”

“It’s still, like, a long way. I’m not just gonna take a walk over to Virginia if I wanna say hi, am I?”

“You know, there’s this amazing invention called Skype if you’re missing me that much. I’ve got this opportunity, dude. Might as well give it a shot. If I drop out after a week, then at least I tried.”

Clint shrugged. “Fair. Just don’t expect me to join you there.”

I shot him a look. “But you’re going to stay in school?”

“School, yeah. I’m not going to voluntarily chain myself to college, though. I’d last a week, tops.” Clint trudged through the corridor to where his locker was. “I’m going to look into finding a more permanent job, though. See if I can get somewhere like SHIELD or the IMF. Wonder how you get an interview to join the secret service.”

“I’m pretty sure that the IMF is a myth and SHIELD is, like, desk jobs, but sure.”

To my surprise, Clint let out a snort of laughter. “SHIELD? Desk jobs? Pfft. You don’t read conspiracy theories? Everyone knows that a company that’s just desk jobs can’t have that big a budget.”

Okay, sure dude. “Don’t they also mess about with new inventions and sell them to the army and stuff?” I asked. “Surely inventing needs a fairly big budget.”

“Not that big, dude. Not that big. SHIELD totally has an underground spy network.”

“Whatever you say, mate.”

“I’ll get you proof eventually!”

“Ok, whatever you say. But I’m sure about the IMF. ‘Your mission, should you choose to accept i-”

Clint slapped me with a sigh. “Maybe, maybe. But SHIELD? I’ll prove you wrong, my friend. Just you wait!”

o0O0o

Eventually June came and I was freed from the shackles of high school; thank God. Like, yeah, the final day was a mess with at least three (3) cars being flipped and at least six (6) teachers covered in paint. And I may or may not have emptied a bottle of green food colouring into the swimming pool, much to the PE staff’s horror. Pranks like that would usually get me suspended, but, given that I was leaving and never coming back, there wasn’t a lot the teachers could do. Oh, and I helped to tinfoil the school minibus, because why not. We then covered it in sticky notes to make it look like some giant cosmic fish, because confuse, don’t abuse (well, abuse a little bit if they’re freshmen).

After the escape, I threw myself back into lifeguarding and swim teaching and practice, trying to keep my fitness up and earn a bit of extra cash to tide me over during my potentially short stay at college. Mom was fully aware of this fact and perfectly okay with it, as long as I tried.

Mom had kept Paul as her boyfriend and they were going pretty well on the whole. Mom was planning out her proposal, while Paul had arranged his own. Probably should have told one of them not to bother because the other one was planning to already. Whoops. But hey, it was adorable that they both consulted me on what to do, and if my evil plan played out right, then they’d both try and propose at the exact same time and I could take an adorable photo before collapsing with laughter.

Ah, summer plans.

o0O0o

Freshers’ Orientation Week came and went with little event. It was pretty chill on the whole, with all of us living in the empty housing that we’d be occupying in September. My roommate was a dude called Malcolm. He seemed a little uptight, but was nice overall. I didn’t know a lot about him, but by the end of our week of rooming together I’d discovered that he had lot of siblings, but he was closest to his sister; he was here to study Art History and Politics; and was also an assistant councillor at a kids’ camp during the holidays.

“It’s not very interesting, but I kinda get paid, so it’s okay. But what do you do anyway?” He was pretty good at that - passing the conversation onto me, instead of keeping it on him.

“Oh, I lifeguard at the local pool and teach the little kids at my swim club.”

He grinned, before pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Aww, that’s so cute.”

“They are tiny little demons from hell.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Aren’t all small children?”

“Yes, but they’re also wet and you’re stuck in a hot enclosed space with them for an hour. It’s a lot worse than a summer camp, let me tell you.” I pulled a jumper out of my suitcase, before shrugging it on.

“Nope.” Malcolm’s voice was vaguely loud for once in this entire week.

“What?”

“I had to share a cabin with almost all of the little squirts for like six years before this summer, so I think I have it worse.”

I cringed from the pain of imagining sharing a room with some of the swim kids for six years. Yikes. “Six years? Okay, that’s rough.”

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m probably gonna be late for class. Or orientation. Or whatever it is. I’m dyslexic and too lazy to decipher this damn timetable, so whatever.”

“Same.” I shot some finger guns at him. Let’s be honest here; he judged me before I’d even finished the first shake, and then I managed to run straight into the door frame in my haste to run from the awkward situation.

Malcolm laughed his head off as I picked myself up and walked through the door like a normal person, yelling “That never happened!” as loud as I could.

o0O0o

Mom and Paul proposed to each other on the 5th of August, and boy, was it adorable.

I’d managed to convince them both to not go out for anything really fancy, but to go for a nice walk outside and find a quiet, romantic spot in one of the parks. I followed subtly, neither of them aware of that part of the plan. Well, subtly until both of them got down on one knee at the exact same time, at which point I squealed and jumped out of the foliage to take a picture, before laughing so hard I genuinely fell over.

Mom whipped around to give me the Mom Stare (TM). “Perseus!” Jeez, I was getting the Perseus treatment?

It took me a good minute to be able to breathe well enough to formulate a response. “Sorry, Mom. I just had to.”

“You should have told me!” I caught sight of Paul chuckling and decided to hold my tongue. “If anything it would have been easier on both of us, and you.”

I had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Sorry?”

Mom gave a long-suffering sigh and gave Paul a kiss. “Welcome to the family, I guess.” She paused for a moment, before adding in a loud stage whisper, “‘Fraid you’ll have to put up with that one,” she gestured in my direction.

I placed a hand over my heart in mock hurt, loudly declaring, “I’m wounded!” before proceeding to pretend to fall over. Except that didn’t go to plan, because when does it ever?, and I ended up in a spiky bush. Ouch.

And so we were left standing in Central Park, guffawing (see, I do know some long words) like the idiots we were.

o0O0o

College was pretty boring. Sure, there was stuff going on, but I was always either too broke, too busy, or not interested enough to participate.

So while the other kids got high and drunk, I studied. I decided to take up the free language course that the university offered, determined to study Russian so that I could understand what Clint (and Nat whenever she showed up) were whispering about. I kept swimming almost every day, taking advantage of the free student pool. Malcolm studied with me, both of us trying to struggle through the mandatory English and Maths classes with our dyslexia and ADHD. It was not fun at all.

I did surprisingly well in my midterms in October, much to the relief of both me and my mom, who I think had a bet with Paul as to how long I’d last and she may have won, and I was well into December when I got the call.

“Am I speaking to Perseus Jackson?” I stare down at the private number, trying to work out if I’d done anything vaguely illegal recently. Probably not? Unless trying to prevent your roommate from drunkenly stealing a set of traffic lights counted as illegal. Or that time when he tried to come in with a stop sign. Was that the same night, actually?

We had to sneak it back. Well, I had to sneak it back while Malcolm drunkenly giggled and tried to steal some other piece of vital road signage. Ah, good times.

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is Phil Coulson. I’m calling to offer you a job.”

I almost burst out laughing. That was a joke, right? ‘Percy Jackson’ and ‘job’ did not go together. “A job?”

He hesitated slightly. “Well, it’s more of a placement that could, and most likely will, lead into a job.”

Okay, so that sounded slightly dodgy. “A placement?”

“Yes. We have heard of some of your… skills that may be useful.”

“Skills?” I was pretty sure that I had none of those. “What skills? And what company even are you?”

“I’d like to offer you a job in a semi-privatised government division, the-”

“I’m gonna stop you there, because that sounds dodgy as fuck already. Isn’t, like, the definition of privatised, like, not government? I swear it’s literally impossible to be both.”

Agent guy ignored me and ploughed on, “As I was saying, we’re willing to offer you a job that starts immediately at the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. It would start this May and would continue for an unknown period of time. You would-”

I cut over him again. “Wait, you’re talking about SHIELD, right?”

“As I said, it is the Strategic Homelan-”

“SHIELD, dude. Use the acronym before my head explodes, please. Anyway, what would this job be? Cuz, I’m like, currently trying my hand at college and maybe I should try and graduate first?”

“As I was saying, Mr Jackson, you would have to drop out of university. However, we are able to offer you a degree level course from our own headquarters.”

Okay, so that sounded a bit too good to be true. “Would I have to pay? Because I have way too little money for that.”

“No, it’s an earn while you learn arrangement. At the end, if you pass, we employ you for at least five years. That’s your end of the bargain and we’ll keep up ours.”

“You still haven’t actually told me what the job is, yet.”

“I’m willing to meet you next week to discuss it, if you would like.”

“Uh, okay?”

Agent Guy rattled off an address to somewhere I didn’t know and told me to meet him there at 10am on Wednesday. ‘Precisely’ was implied heavily.

o0O0o

I met the agent at a cafe on Montgomery Street. It was crowded and busy, crammed full of students. “Perseus?” A tall balding man stood up in the corner of the cafe, calling my name.

I grimaced slightly. “Agent Coulson?”

He held out his hand for me to shake and gestured for me to sit down. “So, the job, or apprenticeship if you prefer, I’m offering you is one as a trained field agent. It would require observation skills, physical fitness, the ability to perform reconnaissance and the ability to learn quickly. All of which you have.”

I held my hands up in a ‘slow down’ gesture. “Hold up. ‘The ability to learn quickly?’ I’m sorry, but I’m not exactly quick to do anything; I’m dyslexic. I couldn’t read through a personality file if I tried. All Greek to me.”

He switched languages flawlessly. “It hasn’t stopped you from learning Russian to a semi-fluent level, though.”

“Speaking, yes,” I retorted. “I can’t read or write very easily. I’m only in on this to eavesdrop on my friend.”

Coulson switched back to English as quickly as he’d gone to Russian. “We can arrange for files to be given to you as audiobooks. You don’t have to do much reading, full stop.” He paused before continuing, “Also, eavesdrop?”

“Believe me, it comes up in conversation more than you’d think. Anyways, I’m going to accept your offer, mainly because I’m not sure if I can survive another term at uni, let alone three years. But if I am doing this, you better change my name to Percy on all of your government systems. I’m not some stupid character from Greek mythology and have been bullied about it enough, thank you.”

o0O0o

Thanksgiving arrived and I went home, starving and armed with two bin bags full of washing. You can imagine my surprise when Clint was the one to answer the door when I got back.

“You’re late,” he commented, swinging the door open for me to walk through.

“You’re living in my house,” I retorted, dropping the two bin bags in the hallway. Of course mom’s superpowers went off and she yelled at me for leaving my stuff there. Whoops.

I picked up the bin bags and dropped them again another three feet further inside, because why not.

I turned back to Clint. “So, why are you living in my house?”

He shrugged. “My place has a leak. Well, more like a river whenever it rains. And an infestation of some weird grey things that sorta just, appear and then nyoom, gone. Freaky.”

“So do I even have a room to sleep in or am I bunking with you for the next week?”

“Umm…?”

I sighed and sort of threw my bag of (shockingly) clean clothes and my toothbrush into my bedroom. “I swear you could’ve had the spare room?”

Clint pulled a face. “That room is a glorified cupboard with a put-me-up bed. Why don’t you sleep there?”

I stared at him with my hands up. “Because this is my house?”

“It’s also technically mine now, so-”

“Why are my mom and Paul even letting you stay here anyway? They think you have a foster family.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t they?”

Clint shuffled slightly. “Yeah, about that…” His hands fidgeted in front of him. “Natasha may or may not have dropped through a window one night and scared the shit out of all off us.”

“That doesn’t answer why you were even here in the first place. Also, isn’t she in Russia? That seems quite a long way to come to pull a prank on you.” I crossed my arms.

“Okay, so maybe Nat had a mission in New York, and maybe I didn’t tell you. And maybe my ‘foster parents’ were ‘ill’ for a couple of days. And maybe Sally offered to have me here until they were ‘better’.”

I blinked. “That’s a lot of maybes.”

Clint looked rather sheepish.

“Boys, dinner!”

“You’re telling me everything later,” I said firmly, as if speaking to a disobedient dog.

Clint shrugged and ran past me to get to dinner first.

o0O0o

I met with Agent Coulson again in mid-December to finalise the details of the ‘placement’ as he puts it, or ‘secret agent boot camp’ as I preferred to say it. Sounds cooler. Also more realistic.

“I understand that a Mr Clint Barton is currently living in your home.” Okay, so that wasn’t a good sign; the moment anyone asks any sort of stalker question that is.

“Yeah?” I responded, trying to work out where the conversation is going.

“As a future member of SHIELD, are you aware that there is a highly skilled assassin currently living with your mother and stepfather?”

“Uh, kinda? He’s pretty chill and is my only friend, so…?”

Coulson looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. “Oh my god. Tell him that the offer extends to him as well before he murders my newest recruit for a few dollars.”

I take a sip of my coke. “Okay? Is there anything else? Because I kinda have class at two, so I need to go.”

Coulson rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Yeah, kid, you can go.”

I thanked him and slapped down the couple of dollars for my coke, before slipping on my rucksack and hurrying out of the cafe. In the background I could hear him muttering, “Hawkeye? Fucking Hawkeye.”

Huh, who knew that government agents swore?

o0O0o

Clint was sat on my bed when I entered my room after returning from college for Christmas, just to piss me off.

“So, Hawkeye. How are you doing?”

Clint looked like he wanted to scream. “Where did you hear that??”

“From the government agent inside my computer.” Clint clearly didn’t find my joke funny. “Okay, it was from the guy offering me, and now you, a job.”

Clint frowned. “Who the hell would offer me and you a job?”

“SHIELD.”

He froze for a second. “So it does have a super secret spy ring? You so owe me money on that, Jackson.”

I furrowed my brows. “Okay, so that’s the first thing out of your mouth. I don’t know why I’m surprised by that. Also, me and my family are literally paying for your existence and you’re asking me for money?”

Clint pouted. “I’m making a monetary contribution. Unlike you, I’m not poor. So what's in it for them?”

“I think it’s just that they’re training up a bunch of special agents for themselves? I don’t really know.”

Clint looked seriously unimpressed. He pulled an ‘are-you-kidding’ face. “You don’t know what this job is but you’re dropping out of college to do it?”

“How did you know I was going to drop out?”

“I’m an assassin and a spy, as you keep pointing out. You were Googling ‘how to let your professors know that you’re dropping out without it looking like you are stupid and lazy’. Come on.”

“Fine.” I threw up my hands. “Are you going to join a super secret spy agency with me or not?”

“As long as I get your portion of leftovers from your mom’s apple pie.”

It was a small price to pay for a companion through what was looking to be a difficult career. “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed it. Swing by my tumblr (@twelve-olympains) if you want to ask any questions, or do it in the comments below!


	7. 2014 (i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of an era

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, finally posting this shit that has been sat on my drive since like july. Happy 2019, let's hope it doesn't end in nuclear war.

**\- 2014**

 

The year kicked off with my final few weeks at college which were actually pretty chill now that I wasn’t going towards a course. Malcolm seemed to be somewhat worried about the fact that I wasn’t returning. “Are you sure that you want to do this?”

 

I hummed. “Yeah, pretty damn sure actually.” 

 

He scrunched his face up. “But what about your future job? This could have a lasting impact!” It’s kind of adorable that he was getting so stressed out about  _ my  _ academic achievements, like he hadn’t just picked up like seven new electives and was quite literally drowning in work.

 

“I’ve actually been offered a job that will also get me a qualification.”

 

Malcolm’s mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to formulate the words to argue  with me. “At least stay in touch?” He didn’t sound so sure about that.

 

“Yeah, I will.” I patted his shoulder awkwardly. I didn’t understand how he had got so attached to me. “You have to introduce me to that sister of yours that you’re always going on about at some point.”

 

“You’re only saying that because you think she’s hot.” 

 

Okay, so maybe Malcolm had shown me a couple of photos of Annabeth. “I never said anything of the sort,” I gasped, mock-hurt. “I don’t know  _ where  _ you get that impossible idea from!” 

 

“Yeah, yeah. So, this is it? You’re dropping out for real?”

 

“I’ve got a course over spring break. If they offer me a job, I won’t come back here. If they don’t, I guess you’ll see me on the first day of term.”

 

“Good luck, Percy.”

 

“You too, man.”

 

o0O0o

 

Spring break rolled around and I was (finally) released from the hell known as college, already in debt by at least a grand. Yippee. 

 

My phone buzzed as I was standing on the subway, packed in with half a million grumpy commuters who were more than happy to drop their suitcases on my toes, as I had discovered.

 

I let go of the overhead strap to reach into my pocket and tug it out, reading the name and sighing. 

 

I put my phone away and hefted my rather large bag, before shoving my way through the sea of moody suits and squeezing myself off the train and onto the platform, retrieving my phone again as soon as I was out of the station, when it began to ring, just as I had expected.

 

“Yeah?” I asked, nearly getting hit by a taxi as I crossed the road without looking. 

 

“Mr Jackson. We have decided that I should meet with you immediately to discuss the final logistics of your placement.” 

 

I frowned as I dodged an old lady with three dogs. “That sounds pretty bad.”

 

“It’s not as bad as you think. Silver Sedan, parked on the corner.”

 

“Sure.” I hung up, spotting the car at once and getting into the passenger side as soon as I reached it. Sure enough, Agent Coulson was sat there, looking literally the same as whenever else I saw him. Guy could’ve been a robot and I wouldn’t’ve been any the wiser.

 

I dumped my bag at my feet. “So, what was it that required the super secret meeting?” 

 

“We would like to bring forwards your SHIELD induction by two more days, if that is possible. That leaves you with only three days to prepare yourself. However, I must stress that there is very little to prepare. You need bring very little, save for a couple of personal items, but these will be placed in a safe locker until you are initiated as an agent.”

 

“So, I need a toothbrush? Shampoo?” 

 

“Everything you need will be provided.” Coulson’s calm voice reverberated around the car again.

 

“Cool. See you… when was it again?” 

 

“Monday. 8am please, sharp.”

 

“Monday. 8am sharp. I’ll make sure Clint knows as well. See you there, Mr Agent.”

 

If I didn’t know that Coulson was a cardboard-cut-out cold no-personality type guy, I could’ve sworn that I heard him give a minute sigh as I climbed out of the car.

 

o0O0o

 

SHIELD’s New York HQ was massive. I don’t understand how I didn’t realise that there was a spy organisation right under my nose for this entire time. 

 

Well, maybe it had something to do with the  _ spy  _ part, and not that I was just thick. But to think that the conspiracy theorists were right was the weirdest feeling, not going to lie. 

 

I had a rucksack over my shoulder with like one pair of pyjamas and a few pairs of underwear, because I didn’t trust SHIELD to provide us with anything other than combative gear . Clint had pretty much the same, but also a bow and quiver, because he was a special snowflake and wanted to prove that archery was amazing. And probably show off too, but I didn’t rub that in his face too much.

 

We sort of just… knocked on the door. 

 

A tired looking secretary pressed a button and let us in. She glanced down at her notes. “You Coulson’s two?” We nodded, trying to look calm. I could blame my fidgeting on ADHD. Clint was just sort of… shifting. “He’s sending someone down to meet you, so if you could just stand out of the way, that would be great.”

 

We stood awkwardly in the corner of the lobby for what felt like forever. Eventually a lady appeared at the bottom of a set of stairs. “Perseus and Clinton?” 

 

Okay, so maybe this wasn’t going to go as well as I had hoped. 

 

“That’s us,” I cut across Clint, who was just opening his mouth to make a smart-ass response to my long name, as he always did. 

 

She looked skeptical, but nodded nonetheless and led us up the stairs to a floor (by the time we got there I’d lost count of how many flights we’d climbed). “This is the training floor where you will be staying for the next two weeks. You’ll find all of the facilities that you need are on this floor and you will not need to leave unless instructed by your Training Officer.”

 

“Who’s the Training Officer?” Clint asked before I could stop him.

 

The agent looked down at him coolly. “Agent Green. Not that you’d know him.”  I shot Clint a look, but he just pursed his lips and shrugged in reply. 

 

“So…” I broke the long, awkward silence. “What now? Do we just, pick rooms? Are they allocated? Where do we have to be and when?” 

 

“There are two dormitories for men, and two for women. Your schedules will be sitting on    
your allocated beds.” She ushered us into the room to our right before hurrying off as quickly as she could, almost as if she was trying to avoid some sort of infectious disease.

 

We sort of awkwardly shuffled into the dormitory. It was very clearly military: no excess comfort. Steel bunks lined the walls, with thin mattresses and duvets, sheets piled neatly at the end of the unmade ones, the made ones done to the utmost precision. At the foot of each bunk were two footlockers stacked on one another, containing all personal belongings, or so it seemed. Simply dark blue or black clothes, small black bags that presumably contained toiletries and pairs of thick, sturdy boots. 

 

That was all.

 

I knew that they’d forget underwear (Fight me, Coulson). Maybe that was our first job/assignment. Find where they’d hidden your pants and socks. I’d be up for that.

 

“Hey.” Cint and I spun around to find another guy sitting on the bed behind us. The dude chuckled, wiping his hand over his face and into his hair. “I thought that I’d be the youngest on this thing, but clearly not.” He gestured to Clint. “I’m Jason Grace by the way.” 

 

I took his proffered hand. “Percy Jackson.” 

 

Clint nodded in Jason’s direction. “Clint Barton.”

 

Jason gave a small smile. “You’re probably in one of those over there.” He nodded towards the beds right at the back of the room. “I don’t think they’re alphabetical.” 

 

We thanked him and walked over towards the beds he’d pointed out, scanning for our names. I grimaced to see ‘Perseus Jackson’ written on the slip of paper at the foot of the bed. Ew. What was worse was the fact that everyone else in here was probably a nosy snob and now could use my full name against me.

 

Sigh.

 

I dumped my rucksack on the bed before turning back to Jason. “So how did you get recruited by a super secret spy organisation?”

 

Jason chuckled to himself. “Oh, I got recruited out of summer camp. They come around to it every year and pick one of us to join. This year I was the lucky one, youngest ever I think.”

 

“That’s way cooler than what happened to me,” Clint remarked, sat on his bed with no move made to actually make it.

 

“Oh?” Jason asked. 

 

“I was dragged in as an afterthought,” he said with exaggerated emotion. “It was quite hurtful. They literally said to him,” he jabbed a finger in my direction, “oh, does that kid still live with you? Cool, bring him too.”

 

I snorted. “Coulson would never be so casual. I swear, that man is a cardboard cutout. Maybe a two by four, actually. In my case, it was a creepy phone call about a job opportunity and like a conversation in a cafe in Russian.” 

 

Jason’s eyebrows rose up into his hairline. “Okay, apparently SHIELD does not have a standard procedure for recruitment then. Noted.”

 

“Yeah, that’s a way of putting it.” Another guy had walked in and dumped his stuff on a bed next to Jason. “I was out sea kayaking when this boat just sorta pulled up and this dude yells something about offering me a job.” 

 

I had many questions, but I ignored them in favour of a handshake. “Percy. These are Clint and Jason. You are?” 

 

“James Edwards. I’m an MIT graduate.” Okay, so maybe most of these guys were going to be a hell of a lot older than me and Clint. “But do any of you guys actually know what we’re in for? Because I just got told to show up. And that the pay was decent.” 

 

“I think we’re being trained to be secret agents, but there are so many jobs in this organisation. Maybe you have to be a really fit secretary to carry the paperwork,” Clint commented, now dangling upside down from his bunk by his knees.

 

I shrugged. “I was told field agents when I met with Coulson in that cafe, but I don’t know.” 

 

Jason looked like he wanted to do a spit take. “Coulson? You were recruited by Coulson? He’s like a legend; my recruiter couldn’t shut up about him and murdering someone with a  magazine.” 

 

“He what? Guy’s got the personality of a brick wall.” I hummed to myself.  “And I’m pretty sure that’s a move out of a bad spy film.”

 

James gestured to the dormitory. “Isn’t this entire building out of a bad spy movie?” 

 

I laughed. “That’s true.” 

 

The sound of boots came smartly along the corridor.

 

We stopped laughing as the door opened and another bored-looking suit appeared.

 

“Keep the noise down, will you? You sound like you’re having far too much fun in here. And squirt,” he gestured to Clint, who was still upside-down, “make your damn bed,  _ then  _ lie in it.” The suit adjusted his tie. “You’re here for a job, not a rodeo.” He beckoned another twenty-something year old into the room. “This is your dormitory. Have fun with the hooligans.” He eyed Clint before leaving. Clint stuck his tongue out and flipped him the bird, but made no move to right himself.

 

The awkward guy in the middle of the room smiled nervously. “Hi, I’m Graham.” 

 

Clint chokes on a laugh. “Graham? You’re a millennial and you’re called Graham?”

 

Graham’s shoulders dropped slightly. “Yes?” 

 

I sighed loudly. “The hyper upside-down child is called Clinton and therefore stands need to talk. He’s also salty because he is Gen Z and cannot share our quality humour.” 

 

Clint’s jaw dropped, uhh, rose. “Says you,  _ Perseus _ !” 

 

“At least Perseus makes some sort of sense! My dad's supposed to be Greek, whereas your name just sounds like ‘cotton’.” I heard James splutter our a laugh behind me.

 

Clint shrugged upside down, which was quite impressive and disconcerting. “You can’t diss my parents because they’re dead.” 

 

The room went silent, Jason, James and Graham all looking somewhat ashamed. 

 

I sighed slightly. “Dude, do you have to bring that up every time?” He grinned up (or was it down) at me. “Anyway, do you need help making your bed or getting up or what?” 

 

o0O0o

 

Just brilliant. Even our timetables were in some sort of weird-ass military code. 

 

What the hell did 1000 MH BR mean? 

 

What did I wear to something if I didn’t know what it was? Should I stay in what I came in, or change into some of my standard-issue clothes? Which of those should I- 

 

Oh, yeah. That was going to be easy, given that there was literally one outfit. 

 

Okay, first problem solved.

 

Now to decode. Wait, no, now to pry Clint off of his bed where he’d hung like an upside down limpet for ten minutes and make beds.

 

_ Then  _ decode.

 

Yeah, the delimpeting was definitely harder than expected. At least Clint knew how to make a bed.

 

Clint brushed off his clothes and grinned, eyes twinkling. “Shall we get going then?” 

 

I frowned at him. “But we don’t even know what  _ it _ is? Or  _ where _ it is?”

 

Clint’s eyes narrowed. “It’s pretty clearly in the mess hall. Or is that just me? Military: time, location, subject. Makes sense, doesn’t it? And I’m pretty sure that it’s gonna be a briefing, knowing SHIELD. Probably what ‘BR’ stands for.” 

 

The other four of us were standing there in surprise. “Since when can you read military schedules?” 

 

“Since my job?” Clint made direct eye contact with me as he rubbed the back of his neck.

 

James’ eyes narrowed. “You have a job? You’re like, twelve.”

 

“Actually, it’s had, but yeah, I had a job when I was like fourteen. It sorta fell through about six months ago for the last time. It’d been a bit on-off for a few months before then, though.”

 

“But why all the military stuff? And I swear it’s illegal to have a job when you’re under 16?” 

 

“Oh, my boss was ex-military and I think thought that he thought those were his best days and liked to make all of his timetables military style. And since when does legality come into any of this? Nothing we’re doing now can be legal.”

 

I'm gonna have to give it to Clint; he's damn good at lying. If he hadn’t told me the real story, I’d have believed him.

 

As it was, I kept my mouth shut. Telling your newly-made friends on your first day of spy school that your friend is an expert assassin who’s worth a good few millions probably won’t make you incredibly popular. And may get your aforementioned assassin friend lynched, which would be unfortunate because I quite liked the squirt. 

 

We hovered there awkwardly for a bit, trying to grasp at some sort of conversational topic. 

 

“Does anyone have a watch?” James asked quite suddenly. 

 

“No. I’m poor.” 

 

“Then we are totally going to fail.”

 

Clint produced a battered-looking digital watch from his bag after some considerable rummaging. Neither of us had made our beds yet. “Yeah. Should be set to military time if the battery is still working. Says… five to ten. Yeah, we’re so going to be late.”

 

All four of us pretty well ran out of the room. Jason tripped over his untied shoelaces because clearly, being the youngest person ever to be recruited from your military summer camp, you remember  _ everything _ . We rushed through the corridors, checking every room for this god forsaken mess hall. Where the fuck was it?

 

Why did every damned corridor look exactly the same?

 

“I swear we’ve seen that exact plant six times!” I panted slightly as we rounded another corner. “There can only be so many living things in here.”

 

Clint scoffed. “It’s plastic, Percy.” 

 

“Yes, but that’s beside the  _ point _ . We’re going round in circles.” 

 

Jason coughed behind me. “No we’re not; look.” 

 

The five of us stopped mid-stride as we all turned in shock. There in front of us was the damn mess hall. 

 

Clint puffed like a cat that had caught the goddamn canary. “Told you not to doubt my navigational skill!” 

 

I sighed, long-suffering. “What time is it?” 

 

“You’re late,” snapped a voice. I glanced up to see the door to the mess hall wide open and a guy in a suit (gasp, what a shock) standing in the opening. “Look at that,” he crowed to the groups of people behind him, “Dormitory Four has finally arrived. Well, the latecomers have, anyway. In you come. I guess we’ll have to restart the briefing for your benefit.”

 

A chorus of groans was heard from inside the mess hall.

 

o0O0o

 

The majority of the week was just boring information stuff that related to what we’d actually be doing in May, but at least the physical training exercises were fun.

 

Well, if by  _ fun  _ you mean involving running thirteen kilometres around the training hall with six-kilo weights strapped to each ankle, then yeah, fun. It was... character building. Or torture, depending on your standpoint.

 

I think that the coaches were quite impressed with my skill in the open-water swimming we did on the fourth day.

 

It was half a kilometre.  _ Half _ . I could swim that in my sleep, especially since it turned out SHIELD had a massive swanky pool that was open 24 hours, so I could train after dinner or before the morning run if I wanted.

 

Yes, I used it. Yes, I’m out of my goddamn mind. Thank you for the input.

 

We had one day where they sent us out into the middle of New York like idiots and told us to do surveillance on the people around us. Apparently we should be have been able to find a maximum of six ‘felons’ - we found ten, so whoops. But apparently they were all covert operatives, even if a few of them were actually FBI and CIA, so maybe we did our job a little too well.

 

Oh well. I’d say I played an expert part, but it was pretty much all Clint. He could spot a covert agent from half a mile away, I swear. Also the fact that he dragged us up onto the rooftops to do our surveillance probably helped us as well. 

 

“How did you even know that we could get up here?” James was bent over with his hands on his knees panting as we jumped between another set of fire escapes. 

 

Clint smirked from his position two metres above us. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” He drawled in the most ridiculous fake accent ever. Or at least I hoped it was fake. That wasn’t what he sounded like back in Fucktown, Iowa, was it?

 

Graham nearly fell off the roof from silent-laughing too hard, before instantly sobering up when he realised what Clint had actually said. “Wait, what?” He pulled himself up onto the next platform. “When the hell would you’ve needed to climb onto roofs in New York?” 

 

Clin caught hold of the bars of the roof above him and did a fancy flip upwards using those. “Maybe as a sniper.” 

 

Well, shit, that really let the cat out of the bag there. Or maybe the assassin out of the whatever assassins hide in. Nevermind, bad analogy. 

 

I ignored James and Graham’s sharp intake of breath as I followed Jason up onto the platform that led to the top of the roof. When we got there, Clint was staring down onto the streets of New York City. “There.” He pointed down at a man wearing a fedora (seriously, how much more conspicuous can you get?) 

 

Jason nodded as he radioed in the sighting to the SHIELD supervision team that were running the op. 

 

Before he’d even finished reporting, Clint’d pointed out another guy. Looked absolutely ordinary, dressed in jeans and a faded tee.

 

But whatever Clint said went, so we reported that dude as well. And the woman in the sharp business suit with the briefcase. And the guy in the leather jacket. And the young couple sitting with their arms around each other on a bench in the sunshine.

 

We kept calling them in and getting them confirmed by the ground team, who, rather worryingly, actually seemed to deploy themselves for a couple of the people we identified.

 

Clint just shrugged and jumped lithely onto a nearby roof, laughing at us as we all struggled and freaked out because it was  _ over two metres  _ and no we did  _ not  _ have death wishes, while he taunted us for being ‘babies’ about it.

 

I think the others were afraid of him.

 

o0O0o

 

Quickly, our trial session at SHIELD came to an end and, luckily, so did Agent Green’s time spent with us (we were sure that we were  _ extremely  _ delightful). They didn’t announce anything shocking like me not having a job at the end of May, so I figured it was all good.

 

The call came a couple of days after the course had finished and only a day before I had to go back to college to ‘finish my courses’. I glanced down at my phone registering the unknown number before answering it. “Hello?” 

 

“Hey Percy, it’s Malcolm.” Okay, that was a little weird; I was not expecting him to actually call me, but whatever. “I was just calling to check that you are definitely coming back tomorrow.” Okay, so that was kind of cute that he was doing that. “And also, I wanted to let you know that Annabeth and her best friend are going to be dropping me off tomorrow if you really wanted to meet her.” I wasn’t  _ that  _ obsessed with Malcolm’s sister. Okay, maybe I was lying.

 

“That’s really cool, man. Of course I’m coming back; I haven’t spent the money for a year at university without meaning to do the year at university. So I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

 

Malcolm’s voice trembled slightly. “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

 

I never could work out why his voice shook that day.

 

o0O0o

 

When I got to the dorm room, Malcolm was already there with his sister and her friend. I dropped my stuff rather loudly on my bed before spinning around to them “I’m Percy. Nice to meet you, I hope.” 

 

Annabeth didn’t react to the line I had tagged on to the end of my sentence while her friend managed a bleating laugh. “I’m Grover,” he said, sticking out his hand for a shake.

 

“I’m Annabeth.” She also stuck her hand for a shake, but in a stiffer manner than Grover had done. I tried to act cool but probably failed miserably. Have pity. There was a hot girl in my dorm room and I was being given the shovel talk by way of disapproving looks from her brother who was also my roommate. Not to mention her rather… friendly? best friend who would probably also turn on me in an instant if necessary.

 

“Cool. So why are you guys all the way out here in Virginia?” 

 

Grover shrugs. “This one,” he signaled with his crutch to Annabeth, “wanted to visit her old house while dropping Malcolm off at college and ‘needed emotional support’. I am said emotional support.” Okay, so clearly Malcolm and Annabeth hadn’t lived together, as Malcolm had mentioned coming from Massachusetts and clearly Annabeth came from Virginia. See? Genius spy-in-training right here. 

 

“Ah, cool,” I replied, as if I only had two settings, ‘cool’ and ‘I’m Percy’. Idiot! “So where do you guys go to college?”

 

Grover grinned up at me. “I don’t go to college - I mainly help at our old summer camp.”

Annabeth replied in the same clipped manner as before. “Columbia.” Okay, so she went to an Ivy League University. I was screwed; I was so screwed. 

 

We sat in awkward silence for a few seconds. Grover shifted awkwardly and said with a nervous sort of braying laugh, “So, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that you study here?”

 

“I’m gonna go with a yes, considering that this is my dorm room.” Grover brayed in the same way as the four of us stood in our awkward irregular quadrilateral of intimidation and fear (both relating mainly to Annabeth).

 

Annabh glanced down at her watch before pulling Grover along behind her. “We have to go. It was nice to meet you.” I wasn’t so sure, but whatever. 

 

“See you around, man.” Grover waved at me with one of his crutches as Annabeth dragged him out. As they left, I heard the two of them muttering things about ‘smell’, ‘strong and ‘prophecy’. Suffice to say I was very confused. I mean, I was wearing deodorant and everything. The long hours spent in confined spaces with other sweaty guys my age had made me very much aware of  _ smell _ .

 

o0O0o

 

Finally, the day arrived that I could finally leave the hellhole known as college. It was pretty great to be leaving, though Malcolm, the little nerd, had grown on me enough that I was actually sad to say goodbye to him. Who’d’ve thought it.

 

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this.” Malcolm had latched onto me in a manner similar to that of a koala bear. “Leaving college, getting a job.” Oh god, he was starting to sound like Mom. 

 

“Well, it’s a pretty good job. I’ll see you when you eventually break the law!” I shot a pair of finger-guns at him, but clearly he didn’t find it a funny as I did. “Just kidding, I’ll see you when I can. I’m not sure if I’ll have much time after this, but I’ll definitely try to make it to your graduation.” I ruffled his hair. “I’ll see you in two years, kid.” 

 

Malcolm stood up straight and stopped sniffling immediately. “Excuse me? It’s only a two month age gap!”

 

I grinned, my evil plan to cheer him up apparently successful (it may have also been a reflex thing to say it because I say it so much to Clint, but shhh). “Yeah, whatever. You’re so short I don’t notice.”

 

Malcolm’s jaw sort of twitched indignantly. He looked around the almost empty room, hefting his last box of things into his arms as I pulled on my rucksack. “I think that I might actually miss this place,” he muttered to himself. 

 

I sighed. “Yeah, maybe.” Then again, I think that my room at SHIELD might be near to identical if my induction was anything to go by. Maybe it’ll be cleaner, though. With more bare metal and no carpet. I pulled him into one last hug. “I’ll see you again at some point, bro.”

 

Malcolm chuckled into my shoulder. “Did you just bro me, bro?”

 

“Damn right, I did. Bro.”

 

We separated and walked out of the room together, never to return again. 

 

Wow, that sounds rather dark and foreboding.

 

o0O0o

 

Soon enough, it was Clint’s graduation day. 

 

I felt a totally ordinary swelling of pride that a friend feels for another when they graduate. Totally. Because I had not been acting at all like Clint’s mother or anything like that. Anyway. Pride. I was proud of him, even if he was considerably shorter than the other boys up there and looked a bit like he’d been dragged out of bed and forced to look presentable.

 

I don’t think I’d ever seen his hair brushed before. It looked weird and wrong, I’ll be honest. 

 

And graduation was well, long. It wasn’t sunny like it had been for mine, but sort of dull and grey. Pretty normal day, then. It felt all close and humid and gross; I felt extremely sorry for all of the poor souls in their robes or whatever. I was pretty sure that I was stuck to the seat that I was on.

 

And the ceremony dragged  _ on  _ and  _ on  _ and  _ on  _ and ugh.

 

Eventually,  _ finally _ , it was over and Clint was sidling up to me, grabbing me by the elbow and yanking me away from ‘that hellhole’ as fast as was humanly possible. “It’s over. It’s finally fucking over.”

 

I grinned. “No more education for either of us now.”

 

Clint did a weird sort of victory hop-skip-bound thing, tangling up his legs as he so nearly fell as he gave a sort of quiet whoop. Damn his circus balance: that would’ve been funny. Then he stopped in his tracks, drooping theatrically. “Just work.”

 

“Yeah, kiddo, just work.”

 

He sighed. “Do you think that we’re going to have to work with  _ Green _ ? He hates me.”

 

I shrugged. “Of course he hates you; you booby-trapped his room with mud and those weird non-lethal mini paint grenades that the techs screwed up the formula for. His skin and hair was as green as his name for nearly a week.” 

 

“He deserved it!” Clint did a spontaneous cartwheel cross the football pitch as we headed towards the gates of the school. A few people turned to look, but nobody was  _ that  _ surprised.

 

“I’m not saying he didn’t; I’m saying that he’s gonna make your life hell if we have to answer to him.” I flicked a strand of hair off of my forehead. “I’m hoping for Coulson anyway. I mean, what’s the point in recruiting us if you’re not going to talk to us ever again?”

 

“I dunno.” Clint tucked himself into a perfect somersault as he ran towards the final few metres of grass that were considered to be school property, tumbling forwards and executing an epic backflip through the gate, cheering as he went. “Freedom at last! It tastes so sweet!” 

 

There were a couple of snickers, but most students were clearly feeling the same way, but  unable to express themselves likewise, because we’re not all natural gymnasts like that asshole.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit us up with reviews; we have mocks for the next 2 and a bit weeks of hell.


	8. 2014(ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2014 continues, and oof, this is a long year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, especially as this chapter has been sat on my Google Drive for at least four months. Welp, onto the story.

The actual SHIELD place that we were to spend our probation at was down in DC, so we had to catch the plane. I’m gonna be honest, as a first time user of an airport, it was not fun for me. 

 

Ugh.  _ People. _ There was this one kid who kicked the back of my chair for the entire four hours from New York to Washington, and another lady who was vaguely strumming something (or playing a ukulele song on her phone) for the whole fucking flight. Who the fuck plays the ukulele on a plane? Also the turbulence was insane, jolting us up and down almost constantly. Not gonna lie, it felt like the pilot was trying to murder us or something. Which did wonders for my seemingly perpetually frayed nerves, I’m tellin’ ya.

 

Anyway. I spent the entire trip in the pressurised tin can being flung across the upper atmosphere at stupid speeds, trying not to commit a murder.

 

All in a day’s work, I guess.

 

Clint and I stumbled out of the airport at the other end, hoping that Coulson has had the foresight to book us a taxi or something. Turns out that he hadn’t booked a car, but had sent out someone to collect us. The short dude that was picking us up, Jasper, as he called himself, was bald and annoying - much like a naked mole rat. He grinned weakly at us. His whiteboard read ‘Mr Jackson and Mr Barton’ in messy capitals.

 

“That’s us.” Clint spoke up, surprisingly. 

 

Jasper beckoned us towards the car park, before ushering us into one of those fancy black sedans that like to pretend that they aren’t related to the government in any way, shape or form.  I took rather too much satisfaction in chucking my bag into the boot in as untidy a way as I could before I got in. Clint did much the same before cramming himself into the back of the car (he’d had a growth spurt those past couple of months and now he was tALLER THAN ME and it was just so unfair? Why do all of these things happen to me? But one upside of his sudden growth was that he kept walking into things and he hadn’t quite got his coordination with his now-longer limbs, so he was quite easy to trip up.). 

 

“So,” Jasper started a meaningless conversation, “how did you guys get recruited to become field agents?” His teeth were bared at us semi-menacingly in his rear-view mirror.

 

“Oh, I’m the regional swimming champion and semi-fluent in Russian.” I provided my explanation of what I think Coulson was thinking.

 

“I’m an assassin.” Clearly Clint’s mission was to intimidate Jasper as much as possible. 

 

The aforementioned driver’s eyes widened slightly and he glanced back at one of the world’s deadliest assassins sitting in the back of his car, who was picking his nails boredly. His voice only had a slight tremor when he answered with, “That’s nice. So SHIELD decided that they wanted you to work for us instead of just killing people for cash?” 

 

Clint snorted a little. “Well, if you beat ‘em, join ‘em, and all that.” He glanced up, fixing his Scary Intense Stare™ on him in the mirror.

 

Jasper looked hastily back at the road, fingers clenched around the wheel rather too tightly. I heard the engine whine in complaint as he pressed down a little harder on the accelerator. “So, regional swimming champion? And the Russian?” he said, hastily steering away from the subject of Clint (as well as literally from the motorway). The car stayed in high gear, obviously breaking the speed limit. But hey, maybe SHIELD privileges extended to being above petty laws about speed limits as well as the larger ones to do with murder.

 

“I’ve always loved to swim and am really glad that I managed to go far after I had to quit for a while because we couldn’t afford it. And a friend of ours is Russian and I wanted to join her in judging people but them having no clue what we’re saying.”

 

“Ah.” Jasper swallowed audibly as he pulled across a road towards a large set of buildings by a lake. “Here we are.” He pulled into a loading bay outside the biggest and got out of the car, Clint and I quickly following. We grabbed our bags from the back of the car before hurrying towards the doors of the building. 

 

“Your quarters for probation are on the fifth floor. You’ll be called to separate floors if you are needed for missions, or otherwise. There will be a briefing at 1800; meet in the lobby, and you would do well to be on time this time around.” He glanced nervously at Clint, who narrowed his eyes a little at him. “Boss’s words, not mine!” he yelped.

 

Clint nodded curtly, eyes still narrowed, as we pushed open the glass doors. Jasper did a little sort of bob and pretty much legged it.

 

Clint somehow, somehow, held it together until we crashed open the doors of the stairs (after being pointed to them by the receptionist, who looked unimpressed when we asked for the lift). As soon as the heavy fire door closed behind us, he collapsed in fits of laughter. “You had to’ve seen his face!” 

 

I chuckled in agreement before looking up at the flights of stairs above us. “So, fifth floor lobby. And we have to take the stairs.” I started at them at a jog, preparing myself for the hard exercise that we were going to be forced into for the rest of our careers (read: lives. You don’t exactly just retire from this line of work. You  _ get  _ retired. Usually by a machine gun.) Clint quickly followed and overtook me as we reached the second floor, using his (really long) legs to run quicker than me. 

 

I sighed, deciding to play dirty in order to win. As we rounded the next flight, me still hot on his heels, I slung my duffel low and hard at his ankles. 

 

Clint cursed, stumbling forward, still quite uncoordinated thanks to his growth spurt. Fortunately, he didn’t fall and break his nose, but he stumbled significantly enough for me to dash past him and continue to pound up the stairs two at a time. 

 

We hit the fifth floor almost at the same time and burst through the double doors to find the rest of our training group staring at our red faces. I grinned at Jason, James and Graham in their corner

 

Clint broke the silence. “Hey guys! Any idea where the dorms are?” The cheerful look that he painted onto his face was so false that I wanted to burst out laughing again, but the slightly steely glint in his eyes was mildly terrifying, and I was his friend. 

 

Some random guy pointed wordlessly down the corridor. Clint gave his best shark like smile as we passed him, and he flinched minutely. Either Clint’s real background was known, or he was just really good at being scary. We sprinted down the corridor, hoping that we’d have separate rooms, but no such luck. 

 

I swung the door with our names on it open to reveal another bare bunk room that looked like it was sleeping the five of us. Excellent. I don’t love my privacy at all. Like honestly, I love Clint; I really do, and the others were okay, but just we’re adults; why can’t we have our own fucking rooms?

 

I dumped my stuff on the closest free bed and Clint followed suit, before racing back down the corridor to meet the others. Coulson was already there, glaring at us disapprovingly. “Now that Barton and Jackson have returned, we can get on with business.” He dusted off his hands on his suit’s trousers. “This is SHIELD. You are the best in the world.” Graham exchanged a look with James of what appeared to be wry disbelief. “The next three months will be hell for all of you; you will work harder than you have at any point in your life. If you are successful, you will leave your probation period as a fully-fledged junior field agent. If you are not, a desk job will await you. This is just as vital as any other role in the company, but just no playing Galaga on my watch.” He gave the faintest hint of a smile. “Each week, you will have five hours of language lessons, seven of self-defence, three of shooting and weaponry, and five of research and learning. Being a field agent is not all fun and games, despite what films like Bond and Bourne might make you think. There’s a lot less glamour, and the likelihood is that you will get killed or injured too badly to return to the field. The average career length of a field agent is three years.” He stared down at us sternly. “Your food will be served in the dining hall at 1900 sharp and then free time will be from 2000 until 2200, then probation mandatory curfew will be at 2230. This will remain the same throughout this time period.

 

“Occasionally, a few of you will be sent on missions. Earlier on in training, it will be practice missions; later on, it will be serious missions that are appropriate for your clearance level. That will probably mean low-level surveillance missions without engaging or protective details, but those with particularly honed skill sets,” his gaze paused for a microsecond on Clint, “may be sent on hits. We will see, I suppose.” He clapped his hands together. “Well, we are going to head down to the shooting range now to sort out your equipment and to do your initial assessments.” 

 

Yikes, that did not sound promising for me, as someone who had never touched a gun before. 

 

Coulson turned and left through a plain grey door, swiping a card, which led to another corridor. We followed nervously.

 

This should be fun.

 

o0O0o

 

It turns out that Clint is not only good with a bow, he is also fucking fantastic with a gun. There was an array of different ones of varying sizes and terrifying-ness, of which we had to give them all a try. 

 

Clint picked each one up (Coulson made him go first for some reason), flipped it over, thoroughly studying it, held it up to his eye so he could look through the scope, tossed it up and down a couple of times (which terrified the rest of us to death), then loaded it without any discernible effort, aimed, and shot the entire volley into the bullseye of the target.

 

For every single gun. 

 

There was a small bin at the end of the range with ‘MISC’ printed on it in huge letters. Once Clint had finished and set the bar at the ceiling, Coulson asked if he wanted to have a look through it and try shooting something a bit random. 

 

Clint beamed when he fished out the recurve. Beamed, I’m telling you. “Excellent,” he muttered before grabbing a couple of arrows from the back wall and nocking one of them between the notches in the bowstring. 

 

I heard a couple of other recruits mutter "Is he crazy?" behind me as Clint pulled the bowstring back to his ear and let loose the arrow. It hit the perfect centre of the target he was looking at. He nocked the other arrow in the direction of the same target. My breath caught in my throat as I realised what he was going to do; he was going to ‘Robin Hood’ this shit and split the arrow. I hoped that Coulson wouldn’t mind. The arrow went flying towards the target and hit it dead centre, thus splitting his previous arrow, the fletching hanging to the left and right of the shot. 

 

I heard Graham mutter ‘yikes’ as Clint turned around and took a mocking bow as the rest of us stood there in stunned silence. Coulson smiled the strongest smile I’d seen him give anyone.  “Who wants to go next? There is no pressure; Clint here has already had some quite  _ rigorous  _ training in handling weapons and we do not expect anyone to get a perfect score on their first assessment.”

 

One of the other recruits stepped up to shoot, while Clint returned to the group of us huddled at the back of the range. James clapped him on the back. “Rigorous training, huh? What does that mean?”

 

Clint’s gaze darkened. “It means that life in the circus isn’t a picnic. You learn how to learn fast.”

 

James swallowed audibly and gave an awkward “okay”, before backing off again. We watched quietly as the other recruits each had their go at shooting at the targets that had been practically destroyed by Clint’s volley of bullets. Coulson eventually coughed out a “Mr Edwards” and James stepped up to the shooting line, hands shaking as they gripped the gun. He made a little muttering noise as he released the safety and let the bullet loose. His hands didn’t stop shaking and the bullet went into the target to his right. Agent Coulson made a noise under his breath as he made notes on his clipboard. 

 

He smiled as he called my name: “Jackson”. I’m not sure why; did he actually expect me to be good because Clint was? I stepped up to the mark, hoping with all my being that I wouldn’t miss completely. I positioned my stance like Clint had: standing dead straight on and grasping the butt of the gun with both hands, knees a little bit bent but trying not to look like I was sitting on the toilet. 

 

I drew the gun towards me again and clicked a little slide on the side, next to the trigger. Then I aimed and prayed that it was a semi-automatic. 

 

Okay, so I was right in not locking my arms straight because that recoil was painful.

 

I squinted through the dust at the target, shocked to find that I had clipped the outer edge of the innermost ring. Not a bullseye by a long shot, but not bad given that I had never held a gun in my entire life.

 

Graham clapped as he stepped forward to grab the gun from me. His go wasn’t quite so successful as mine, just hitting the edge of the target, but not missing horrifically. 

 

Coulson gave a sort of half-aborted clap and said, “Right then, that’s all done. Next!” 

 

Jason walked over, looking like he thought the gun would attack him. “Okay,” he murmured, “you can do this.” He slipped off the safety and shot at the target as quickly as he could, dropping the gun at the recoil. He chuckled nervously. “Well, that packs a punch.” He squinted at the target. “Where’s the bullet gone?! He leaned into Graham, trying to establish a clear location for the hole in the target. 

 

Coulson hummed as he made more notes on his clipboard. 

 

Jason continued to squint at the target for a few more seconds. Coulson cleared his throat a little. “Just outside the seven-o'clock,” he said softly. Jason nodded as he found the hole, which wasn’t actually on the target. 

 

Agent Coulson then turned to the rest of us. “Tomorrow will be capabilities testing - physical, psychological and emotional. Then we’ll have some tests for intelligence and language aptitude, determining which language you will be learning and, thus, which region of the globe that you will be assigned to later in your career. I suggest that you all get showered fairly quickly. Dinner doesn’t wait.” 

 

Then he swept out.

 

We clamoured after him before the door closed and left us stuck.

 

o0O0o

 

The ‘aptitude tests’ were actually like psychoanalysis from a professional psychologist, which was absolutely terrifying. She towered over me in her wire-rimmed glasses as she wrote notes on her clipboard. “Have you been through any trauma, Perseus?”

 

Besides being called Perseus? “My stepfather was murdered in 2012, which was pretty traumatic for me and my mum. Uh, my dad’s never been around. I was almost kidnapped a couple of times as a child. I’ve been mugged a few times, and my stepfather abused me for approximately seven years.” I breezed through the list as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the stinging sensation in my tear ducts as I hit the final point. 

 

The shrink nodded curtly and made a note on her clipboard. “So, Perseus, would you say that these events have in any way affected your daily life?” 

 

I snorted loudly and rudely at that. “Yeah, I’d say so. Not super seriously, but I do have  _ minor  _ trust issues. You know, just a little.” Sarcasm dripped from my voice; my usual defensive reflexes kicking in at even a hint of vulnerability. 

 

“Okay, have you had any issues with health or anything?” 

 

I blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Not particularly. I’ve had a few broken bones, but nothing of much consequence.” 

 

The psychologist pressed further, “Which bones?” 

 

“Nose, leg, collarbone, wrist and probably ribs, but my movement hasn’t really been affected by that much. “ 

 

“Interesting.” A couple more notes were made on The Clipboard.

 

I sat there awkwardly in silence, bouncing my leg to try to make the time go faster, as she just wrote stuff down on her clipboard. God, I felt like Will Hunting in one of those weird silent therapy sessions. She looked up suddenly, clearly surprised to see that I was still there. “You can go now.” She made a shooing motion with her left hand, still writing with her right.

 

I stood up awkwardly and left quietly, trying not to let the door make any sound. 

 

The pen scratching stopped for a brief moment as I left, then resumed with extra fervour.

 

I closed the door as silently as I could. I had quite a lot of experience in moving quietly, so it wasn’t too hard, especially since the door was fairly new and not too creaky.

 

Onto the next tests then. 

 

o0O0o

 

Physical testing was hell. Ah, yes, not only did we make you do a ton of this stuff at your little introductory week, we’re gonna make you do it again, but this time with a 25 kg rucksack on; thanks, SHIELD. 

 

But hey, they made us swim again, so that was chill. Unfortunately, it was also with the aforementioned rucksack, because you ‘need to be able to swim to safety with all of your gear’ like you wouldn’t just ditch it instead of drowning. 

 

But then came ‘linguistic capabilities testing’, or whatever the bullshit was called, which of course Clint aced, because he apparently speaks every language under the sun.

 

The section where you had to listen to sections of a made-up language and work out what they were saying was, I found, weirdly easy. Also, don’t put Cyrillic transliteration into a test where at least three people are fluent in Russian. That’s just stupid. 

 

Then came the universally dreaded ‘problem solving’ exam. All of us were told to sit in a room and one by one were called through a dark grey door. Nobody came back through it again, so I sort of just assumed that they were going out a back way and SHIELD weren’t murdering their new recruits, because that would be kind of counterintuitive.

 

Coulson looked down at his list and smiled faintly as he said my full name. “Perseus.” 

 

I sighed deeply, sinking further into the chair for a moment before standing up and following him through the door. Inside was what looked like a training room, maybe. Or a concert hall. The ceiling was high-vaulted, steel rafters exposed. The walls were bare, but held what looked like attachments for climbing ropes or clip-in ladders, maybe. 

 

Coulson led me to the very centre of the room, where a cross was marked out by two strips of yellow tape. I was asked to stand there and shut my eyes until I heard a signal. He didn’t tell me what said signal would be. I stood there for about an age, before hearing a faint rumble. “What the fuck?” 

 

Coulson had apparently disappeared and I was left on my own, with no on to answer my question. 

 

So I opened my eyes, and nearly jumped out of skin to see myself surrounded by smooth grey walls that, upon touching them (because why not) felt like a weird plastic composite thing. 

 

So I guess I had a problem: surrounded by fifteen-foot walls with no discernible foot or handholds. The walls were too far apart to brace one foot on each and frog-hop. Yay. 

 

Now to solve. 

 

I placed the palm of my hand on the wall and walked slowly around in a circle, trying to find a join in it which might be weaker or serve as a foothold. There! A tiny notch was in the corner of one of the walls. I poked my finger at it, hoping that there might be something inside. Whoopdeedoo, I was in luck. I felt a small metal item.

 

Okay, so sticking my finger in it may have also have given me an electric shock. My hair frizzed out in all directions. Oops. 

 

So, yeah, it was electric. 

 

I scanned the floor, trying to find something that wasn’t me to poke in the hole and try and short out the system. I spotted the yellow tape that they had forced me to stand on at the beginning of the task and grabbed it, bundling one strip into a ball and holding onto the other one for later. I shoved my little wad of gaffa tape into the hole and watched as the walls fell instantly, revealing another set of barriers. So, I didn’t short the circuit, but hey; it was a button so all was well. 

 

Except that these walls were taller. I looked around the barren space again, eyes locking on a small sort of fracture in the wall. I ran over to it and pushed my fingers in, grabbing the section and pulling it has hard as I could. Ah, yes, a secret door, a very sensible place to keep anything important. 

 

The door swung forward to reveal a set of ropes and couple of paper files. I grabbed the files first and flipped through them, hoping for some kind of clue. There: a set of blueprints for expanding walls. I flicked through the prints, looking for the section with the secret door, hoping that it would give me a clue about what else this section was hiding.

 

So, it wasn’t going to be quite that easy, I noted, upon seeing that the precise section of the blueprints had been neatly cut out. However, the remains of the drawings of a couple of fixtures on the walls remained. My head rocketed to look upward as I tried to work out if I could feasibly put the ropes into said fixtures. 

 

I could fling it and hope.

 

Yeah, why not.

 

Okay, so five minutes and a rather potent headache later, and I decided that my tactic maybe wasn’t working. I rotated the blueprints, seeing if I could get any information from them in some sort of stupid invisible/hard to see message. 

 

I wondered if the numbers written as lengths and other values were actually accurate.

 

There was a little scribble right in the bottom corner of the page, but it was written in very small and spidery writing, so my dyslexic brain didn’t have a chance at deciphering it in the poor lighting of my nice cage. 

 

I lay the rope on the floor and measured the length by arm-spans, passing it through my hands as I did. It was six spans, and I was about 6 foot, so that was 36 feet of rope, give or take. If I chucked the rope and the top just grazed the top of the wall, a little bit of rope was left coiled. After another measurement, this proved to be more than two spans but less than three, so probably about 15 feet.

 

So 21 foot walls. That’s a lot of wall.

 

I studied the blueprint again, checking the numbers. The scale said that this set of walls should only be 12 feet high, so that was an issue.

 

12 feet…

 

I scanned the wall at halfway up, looking for anything that could resemble a join or discolouring.

 

There was nothing. I studied the tip of my rope, surprised to see that there was a slight glint of something metallic buried a little way in.

 

Maybe it was magnetic. I swung the rope at the 12-foot mark (or thereabouts), absolutely shocked to see it stick. I tugged a little, but it didn’t give, so proceeded to yank myself up the wall.

 

Success! Or, maybe not, but hey. I got to 12 feet and was just wondering how I was going to make it up the second 12 feet when the wall just dropped. I ended up lying on the slightly-sprung floor of the training room, very winded, as the wall slid neatly back into the corner of hell that it crawled from and Coulson reappeared, making a note on his damn clipboard as if nothing had just happened. 

 

Spies, hey?

 

o0O0o

 

About half of the trainees ‘dropped out of’ (were dropped from) the program after that particular bit of rigorous testing. It was down to twelve of us, which felt a bit intense; clearly this spy organisation didn’t need  _ that  _ many spies. 

 

Coulson paced in front of us. “You are now officially out of training and into the probationary period. This means that you have all been upgraded to Level 3. Congratulations, agents.” Pardon? Were we ever Level 1 or 2 to begin with?

 

The room exploded into uproar, but Coulson silenced it with a simple wave of his hand, everyone still slightly on the petrified side of him and his emotionlessness. 

 

“Do not assume that this means that you will be sent out immediately on missions or that your training is over.” Every set of shoulders in the room slumped at that. “To put it at its simplest, you are now officially the dogsbodies, the bottom of the pile. Do not expect to be able to integrate truly into this organisation until your probation is over and you are sent into the field for real. Be aware that this may happen at different times for different people. You are no longer a cohort, but a group of individuals. Perhaps you will end up with a strike partner from this group, but do not expect it. Only high-ranking agents are truly ‘strike’ agents and even fewer become members of a proper strike team.”

 

He paused for a moment, but continued to pace ceaselessly. It was terrifying. “Some of you may become specialised agents in particular fields. Some of you may decide that the espionage world is not for you, but don’t worry about that. Now that you have reached this stage, you will always have a job offered to you by SHIELD, unless you are discharged, retired, or disavowed. Is that clear?” A mutter of affirmation came from across the group. “Now if you will follow me to your quarters. Be aware that these will be yours permanently, unless you acquire your own accommodation, move to a different base, be it in California or Washington, or even somewhere further afield, or you are successfully promoted to Level 10 or above, in which case you will receive improved quarters with your own bathroom.

 

“This is your entry group’s corridor.” Coulson maneuvered us down a narrow, but well-lit corridor. “Women on the left, men on the right. I suggest you stake your claim, then go to collect your personal effects. Anything left in the dorms after midnight will be destroyed. Good night.”

 

o0O0o

 

The next couple of months passed with relatively little incident. One of the guys in our little group-that-wasn’t-a-group broke his leg falling off the parkour course, which, now we were agents, we could use. 

 

We trained and trained and trained, and not much else. I got really good with a gun. Clint stayed brilliant at everything long-range, but had to have specialist hand-to-hand classes because literally anybody could beat him into the ground with a couple of hours of training. 

 

But gradually, gradually, the two of us began to draw closer again in skill. Clint could still beat me with a bow, obviously, and I couldn’t hit a fly from two hundred yards, but both of us could reliably strike down a target from an impressive distance, using an impressive range of weaponry. Both of us got quite frightening with a knife (although I preferred to use mine in a close-range attack and Clint liked to throw his), and both of us got so good at hand-to-hand that we weren’t allowed to train with any of the other guys on probation (although I always beat him. Well, nearly always. He may have been fractionally taller than me, but I had more strength despite my lean build.). 

 

Three months on, and we met up on the roof (our unofficial meeting spot. We loved to challenge one another to get up or down without being seen by any cameras.). It felt so much like that second meeting we had  _ ever  _ that I almost had to take a step back from it all.

 

Clint was balanced impeccably on the very edge of the roof on one hand, gazing down the too-many storeys towards the ground, as I crawled out of the skylight to join him. The cooling autumn air ruffled m y wet hair and made me wish for a hat. “Hey.” I spoke softly, so not to startle Clint to the extent that he fell off of the extremely tall building; that would most definitely not be good. I’d noticed that he was startling quite easily again, like when we met. I hadn’t notice it recede, but I was definitely noticing it now. 

 

Clint, to the benefit of his health and three-dimensional-ness, didn’t startle when I spoke, and gracefully turned himself the normal way up, still sat on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over the edge. “Hey.”

 

“Did you hear about Madeline?” 

 

“The girl from down the hall? The one that just got  _ murdered  _ on her first fucking mission.” He glared up at me and gave a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, I heard.” 

 

I sighed and pursed my lips. “You’re not going to like my news, then.” 

 

Clint’s eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t think I am.”

 

“Coulson’s just about to issue the order. He told me earlier. The two of us are scheduled for a field trip. He said it should be a walk in the park, but he wants to be safe after what happened and send out his ‘most able’. I don’t really agree with that statement; I mean look at us, but whatever Coulson says, goes. We don’t really have a choice. If it goes well, we may well get promoted though. Our probation will be over, anyway.”

 

Clint nodded, looking down. “I guess we’d better get sparring then, if we want to  _ live. _ ” He laughed again without humour, jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. 

 

I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Let’s go do this.” 

 

He quirked an eyebrow, suddenly joking again. “Your funeral. I’m gonna beat you this time.”

 

“Of course you are.” I gave my best condescending smile and slid back into the skylight.

 

“This time, I will! I swear!” 

 

I flipped the bird as I dropped through with a chuckle. 

 

o0O0o

 

The day came far too soon. Coulson introduced us to our mission handler, some irritating mid-level agent called Lawrence, with instructions not to murder one another.

 

The mission brief was simple: ensure that the suspected mafia (or something, my brain just inserted ‘mafia’ when Coulson told us) base was actually a mafia base, and when we were sure, go in all guns blazing and raze the establishment to the ground. He said that they were sure that it was only a small cell and that they had few to no weapons, but to always expect the worst. Lawrence snorted and said that we shouldn’t expect a damn thing. 

 

Apparently this mission was supposed to be a cakewalk, especially, as we were told by Coulson, who dragged us aside for a few moments after sending Lawrence off to check the equipment and stuff, for ‘agents of your calibre and potential’. 

 

That wasn’t a lot to live up  _ at all _ , now, was it? 

 

Lawrence then returned, looking sulky (it seemed to be his default expression), grumbling in a monotone about us having to get in the damn car before it drove off without us. 

 

This was going to be fun.

 

o0O0o

 

The safe house was pretty much completely bare save a metal table, an old fridge, one small cupboard containing three (3) plates, one (1) bowl, two and half (2 ½) glasses, two (2) knives and one (1) bent fork and a single camp bed. Beds were apparently such a luxury that SHIELD could only afford for one of us, and Lawrence wasn’t going to share. 

 

The first thing he did was drop his enormous recon bag on the lonely table, open it, and spread all of his ‘Overwatch’ crap all over it.

 

We opened our duffles and he hissed at us to not leave any evidence of being a spy in the open. Uh huh, sure dude.

 

We flipped off his back and sat down on the cold floor to check our weapons and other spy-type gear. Both of us quickly secured our comms to our ears and did a quick one-two to check that they were actually working before strapping on some bulletproof undershirts on and each putting on a normal shirt to go with our suits. Now it was starting to feel James Bond-ish.

 

I got first turn in the horrible bathroom with the cracked and scummy mirror, and attempted to get my hair to lie flat. I virtually emptied an entire bottle of hair gel into the nest on my head and there was  _ still  _ that tuft just sticking up like nobody’s business. I gave up and went out, muttering to myself about feeling like a greaseball.

 

Twenty minutes and a bajillion checks later, and we were ready to go. Lawrence glared at us from his desk and made a vague shooing motion, which we took as our cue to leave.

 

Time to infiltrate a mafia cell at a huge, swanky party. Awesome.

 

Blend, Jackson. You’re a spy, remember. 

 

o0O0o

 

Ten minutes into our recon/infiltration mission, and we were doing pretty well. We had confirmed that everyone there was mafia, of some description, and Lawrence said that as soon as we could, we were to leave covertly and return all guns blazing to obliterate the spot.

 

Sounded festive. 

 

As instructed, the two of us slipped from the party nice and subtly to find our cache of weapons that we’d placed a couple of blocks away. Most of the stuff we grabbed was discreet, as both of us opted to keep hidden until the last second, much to Lawrence’s irritation. There were more people there then we’d hoped, so getting numbers on our side was the logical and right thing to do. Our ‘senior agent’ didn’t seem to get that, though, and was thoroughly pissed off when we overruled him.

 

So we returned to the party, armed to the teeth in a subtle fashion. We decided to take out stragglers and outliers first with knives, quietly, before making our way into the main party and stabbing a bunch of people there.

 

Wow, that sounded dark and terrifyingly like a terrorist attack, but whatever, it was cleared with the government apparently. 

 

So, now for some totally legal fun.

 

o0O0o

 

For about ten minutes, it was going great. Well, as great as it can be going when you’re literally killing people for your job, but hey. 

 

We had just headed for the main party when there was a burst of static from my comms, followed by silence. 

 

My head snapped up, eyes instantly searching for whatever the cause of the sound had been.

 

I could distantly hear loud voices snapping at the person on the other end of the comms, but I had no way of knowing whether it was Clint or Lawrence that they were talking to, and I was in an area that was completely full of people. Trying to confirm would give away my position. 

 

I decided to go ahead with the mission regardless, taking a deep breath before grabbing for the twin guns hidden on my person and firing without any more qualms.

 

Until I heard what was unmistakably a cry of pain from the comms. 

 

And I most definitely knew who that belonged to. 

 

More static. A kind of crunching. More silence. 

 

I froze up for the briefest of seconds. It was enough time for someone to draw their own weapon and fire it in my vague direction. Lawrence screamed in my ear, something about getting my arse and moving-

 

Ah, right. Moving. I lifted the guns again and continued with my destruction, bodies dropping all around. I could feel a cold sickness rising in my throat, but I tamped it down and strode on, relentless, giving no quarter. 

 

I registered a distant crash from somebody else’s comms unit, before grunts and scuffles began to come through. A piercing screech sounded: metal on concrete. 

 

And after that, came a harsh exhalation, and the muted and funnelled sound of a gunshot.

 

There was a dull thud, and the harsh thunder of several pairs of boots, before silence.

 

I didn’t know what had happened to my team, but I was alone in what was now an official shitshow of a mission. I stopped for a few seconds and listened to the sound of my breathing as I considered what to do next. 

 

There were screams and shouts of fury ringing from the main hall area. I would have to finish that, but what then? I had no backup and no way of contacting SHIELD. The only person who could do that was Lawrence, and he was also offline.  I growled in frustration and loaded fresh clips into my handgun, deciding to just wing it. I sprinted as silently as I could to the door that led to the main hall and then unloading them into the crowd until they were completely spent, before holstering them again (because throwing away your gun like a spy in a film is really wasteful) and leaping over the balcony, whipping out my knives again until the only person standing in there was yours truly.  I wiped blood from small cuts on my face (some lucky bitch smashed a glass on me, and another nearly took half my face off with a broken bottle), then straightened my jacket (ruined as it was) and walked outside, snapping the lock that I had heard Clint give confirmation of sealing such a short time before.

 

Somehow I found myself in an alley down the side of the building, hands trembling slightly as the true implications of the past few minutes caught up to me.

 

There was a cry from above me, and my eyes snapped up just in time to see a dark-suited figure dive from a window, landing heavily but rolling into the impact all the same. There was blood everywhere, but now wasn’t the time to check injuries. There was only one person I knew that was crazy enough to do that. 

 

I grabbed Clint’s elbow and yanked him into the shadows. 

 

o0O0o

 

We hobbled through town, me supporting almost all of Clint’s weight. A wraithlike fog had settled on the town, giving the whole place an eerie feel, but more importantly offering us some cover as the pair of us stumbled in the half-light. To any onlookers, we would probably look like a pair of drunks.

 

It took far too long to get back to the safehouse, but just as I was about to drag him over the threshold, Clint dragged his feet and stuttered out a soft "Stop."

 

I froze. “What?” 

 

He shook his head furiously, eyes darting to the entrance. 

 

I chewed my bloodied lip thoughtfully. “I’ve got to go in. We need the med kit and the contact with SHIELD. I’m going to leave you here with this,” I yanked the gun from its holster and loaded it with my last clip, “okay? You just sit here until I get back. Use that if you need to. There’s no silencer so I’ll hear it. If I’m longer than ten minutes, assume I’m not coming back and you’re on your own.”

 

He nodded wordlessly, and I slipped inside to survey the damage.

 

The steel table was mangled almost beyond recognition. Glass crunched underfoot. I decided to screw stealth and dash upon seeing the lifeless bodies of three men on the floor, one of them obviously Lawrence. The med kit was easy to find, but I had to rummage a little for the satellite phone. Fortunately, I was standing still at the time and able to hear the telltale crackling as another person entered the room. I spun out of reflex, knife drawn before I had even formed a thought.

 

A low laugh echoed through the room as my opponent drew a pistol. “Game over,” he snarled, eyes flashing with a sadistic glee. 

 

I took the page from Clint’s book and tore it out for safekeeping, throwing the knife with more force than I had believed that I could muster. The gun went off, a cracking report in the near-silence. 

 

The impact of the bullet caused me to stumble, but boy was I glad for SHIELD’s tech upon the discovery that I wasn’t dead. My would-be killer toppled to the ground, eyes wide in shock as blood pulsed from his throat. A couple of minutes later, and I had grabbed the satellite phone, cleaned my knife, and was on my way back down to Clint.

 

We were going to get out of this. I was going to make sure of it. 

 

o0O0o

 

After finding an alley halfway across town, we eventually made the call back to HQ about how many agents we’d lost and our current situation. Coulson helpfully just asked for our coordinates and then told us to stay put  _ in a dark dead end of an alley.  _ That was already ominous. 

 

I set Clint down in the back corner and tried to make him comfortable, not that comfort was going to be a concern of his in a minute if he didn’t stop bleeding. My eyes flicked every two seconds to the opening, hoping and praying that nobody was following us. My fingers twitched on the handle of the gun by my side every time the briefest shadow passed over the mouth of the alley. 

 

I tore open the med kit, finding gauze and pressing it against the shallow (I hoped) cut on his forehead that was bleeding everywhere, grabbing one of Clint’s worryingly lax hands and pressing it on with strict instructions to ‘hold’. Yes, head wounds always look worse than they are, but blood is important inside your body, and I only needed to glance at Clint to see that he was struggling on that front. 

 

Next job was to pick up his somewhat mangled left leg, thank any deity listening that he was flexible, and hold it up against my shoulder for the whole ‘keep wounds above the heart’ thing, given that I didn’t want to press on what looked like the edge of a throwing star that poked out from just above his heel.

 

These guys knew how to cripple a guy, I’m telling ya. I grimaced down at the edge of the throwing star, before covering the open edges of the wound in gauze and leaving the star itself embedded. I muttered what I was doing to Clint, so that he knew why his ankle was still not moving at all. 

 

I turned to the rest of the leg on my shoulder, wiping it clean with alcohol antiseptic wipes that were inside the first aid kit. Clint winced and made a half coherent moan, but barely reacted apart from that as the entirety of the crusty blood was ripped from his bare skin (where did the bottom half of his trousers go?). I grabbed as big a bit of gauze as I could and some medical tape and covered the majority of the cuts on his leg, securing it with way too much medial tape, but whatever. Not dying was the best option, and Clint wasn’t really in a state to care about the quality of my field dressings. If they stopped the bleeding, they were good.

 

We sat there in stunned silence for what felt like eternity, listening to the sound of each other’s laboured breaths. Night was really setting in, the light from the street going from grey to an artificial orange under the streetlamps. Our breath misted in front of us. Clint began to shiver uncontrollably, but I didn’t have anything with which to keep him warm and simply prayed that SHIELD were actually coming to rescue us, rather than expect us to find our way back to New York. 

 

Silence reigned, until it didn’t.

 

A soft clatter was accompanied by a loud curse, and a lot of shushing. 

 

Three broad shapes blocked the lamplight from the mouth of the alley.

 

I froze for a second, before sitting as still as I could and reaching very slowly for the gun lying next to me, feeling the cold metal beneath my numbing fingers and closing my hand around it, before inching it up with the same agonising slowness, carefully easing the hammers back and trying not to wince at the soft click that it gave, which sounded to me loud enough to give us away. My breath shuddered from my chest, clouding the three, who stalked into the alley as a single unit, speaking in low, rumbling undertones to one another.

 

One of them gave a loud exclamation upon stepping in something, and I heard Clint’s breath hitch in his throat. I lifted the gun again, carefully aiming and knowing full well that the second I fired, they would attack. Clint’s fear was all I needed to confirm that these were the remains of the group that had (I assumed) singled him out to try and kill him. 

 

Even in the darkness, I fancied that I could see the glint in the leader’s eyes as his gaze landed on the pair of us. I couldn’t see the twisted smile on his face, but I could hear the laughter in his voice. “Look what we have here.”

 

I fired the gun. The man staggered backwards, but didn’t fall. Goddamn mafia and goddamn paranoia and goddamn body armour screwing up my elegant half-baked plans.

 

The three exploded into action, guns appearing from under coats all at once. 

 

I fired again, aiming most definitely for the unarmoured heads and praying that my hand would remain steady. 

 

I heard five shots, but was sure that I only fired three, maybe four. 

 

All three men toppled to the ground with almost comical slowness, and in my freezing and fear I didn’t even notice how much more difficult it was now to breathe.

 

o0O0o

 

Time slipped into meaninglessness, seconds bleeding into hours as surely as… wait, what was it again? My vision blurred into near-blindness, a soft orange globe drifting through the gentle greys that filled my world. A crushing weight sat on my chest and shoulder. I was so dissociated from reality that I could hear the ragged, laboured sounds of my breathing, but couldn’t remember where it was from or why it sounded like that. I could just about feel a warm trickle down my chin, and wondered vaguely if I’d bitten my lip, and why there was another weight pinning down my hand, and why everything was so cold. 

 

All I knew was that I had to stay awake, but why? For whom? There was only me in the near-silence. Well, whoever was breathing like that. I couldn’t feel or hear my heartbeat and considered what it would mean if it wasn’t beating at all.

 

Dark blurs covered the warm glow, moving as if in slow motion towards us. I felt threatened, but didn’t know why. Why was I here? Where was here? What sort of world is only a blurred greyscape with the tiniest hint of colour? 

 

My head lolled to the side as the shapes bent down next to me, removing the weight from my shoulder. I felt a lot colder with its absence. Why couldn’t they take the weight from my chest as well? Why did I feel so broken, like I’d failed, when they removed that weight? Why did they sound like they were shouting down the length of a mile-long tunnel at me? Did they expect me to be able to hear what they were saying? 

 

Darkness beckoned, and, unlike the creatures before me, I could understand what it wanted, and let myself fall into its warm, waiting embrace. 

 

o0O0o

 

Everything hurt, and a mammoth weight pressed down on my chest, causing my breath to wheeze uncomfortably. I didn’t want to try and open my gummed-down eyelids, but tried to anyway, and was greeted by a lance of agony into both of my eyes at the harsh whiteness of the room surrounding me. 

 

So I kept my eyes closed, and listened. Apart from my (I was pretty sure it was mine) noisy breathing, there were a few other sounds: a soft beeping and the gentle whirring of electricity. 

 

There was the sound of a plastic curtain being scraped against more plastic curtain and plastic loops against a plastic curtain rail. That is to say, a cacophony. 

 

“Agent Jackson?” asked an unfamiliar male voice. Sounded young, sort of awkward. “Are you awake?”

 

“Could you turn the lights down?” I somehow managed to rasp out, although unsure if my words were coherent given the unbearable dryness of my throat. 

 

“Of course.” There was a pause and a rustle. “There.” 

 

I slowly attempted to pry my eyes open for a second time, now only minorly attacked by the intensity of the light and not full-on assaulted. I swivelled my gaze (somehow even my  _ eyes  _ hurt. Is that even possible?) towards the guy that had just come in, who was studying a small screen display next to my bed and making notes on a clipboard. He glanced up and gave a lock that said ‘one sec’, so I kept my mouth shut. 

 

After a pregnant and rather awkward pause in which I squinted a little and tried to sit up, which I instantly regretted and gave up on after moving my left leg about two millimetres, he came back around the side of the bed. 

 

“This will sound stupid, but how are you feeling?” he asked, tentative. Poor boy looked exhausted, I noticed, blue-black circles ringing sunken eyes. The hand holding his clipboard trembled almost imperceptibly. 

 

I gave the very definition of a dry laugh, which sounded a little bit like sharpening a knife sounds. “Like I was hit by a bus,” I answered after a brief, but excruciating, bout of coughing. 

 

The corners of his mouth twitched a little. “That’s to be expected, I’m afraid. Would you like me to grab a glass of water?” 

 

Gee, thanks for noticing that I sounded like I was gargling nails. “Please.” 

 

He darted out, returning after a brief moment with a large plastic cup that was full of tap water. To me, it looked like the elixir of life. 

 

He pressed a couple of buttons, which caused the thin bed that I was lying on to adjust position so that I was almost sitting up without actually having to sit up. He guided my right hand in towards me and handed me the glass, eyes flicking up to me as if I was about to jump out of bed and strangle him. As if I could do that in my current state. 

 

I carefully closed my fingers around the cup, before trying to engage the muscles in my arm to move it to my lips. Took a while, but it worked. After being timidly told to not drain it at once, I begrudgingly took little sips until the glass was nearly empty. 

 

I decided that I wanted to know why he was so jumpy around me. I was an invalid, after all. So I asked. My voice still did not sound good by any means, but it was fractionally less painful to engage my vocal chords as I asked, “Why  _ are  _ you so scared of me?” 

 

He jumped a little at the sudden question, but answered me all the same. “Your friend, who you were found with? He woke up a few hours ago and jumped straight out of bed. I think he was trying to strangle me, but he obviously couldn’t put weight on his leg and just fell. I just thought, well, I guess… I was being, I dunno,” he admitted. 

 

Ah, Clint. Sounded just like my idiot. I gave a small chuckle, this time a little less terrifying but still painful on my chest. I didn’t want to know what was wrong with that. “That sounds like Clint,” I agreed. “Does that mean he’s okay?” I asked, the hours before our rescue flooding (mostly) back to me. 

 

He nodded slightly. “Yeah, we think he’s gonna be okay. He’s not going to be able to walk for ages, though, and PT’ll be a bitch.” I noted that I little confidence was returning to his voice as he spoke and felt quite pleased with myself. 

 

“When is it not?”

 

He gave a small shrug.

 

I took the opportunity to ask before the chance slipped away from me. “What actually happened to us? I can remember up until… I, Clint was hurt and I- I don’t know.” My brain ached from the effort of trying to remember, but all I had were broken flashes. Guns and pain and blurs and silence, all sure to haunt my nightmares, but very little of the event itself. 

 

He worried his lip a little. “Don’t worry if you can’t remember. Retrograde amnesia after an event like that is not uncommon. As for exactly what happened to you, well we don’t really know. Your commanding agent breached protocol as soon as the safehouse was compromised: he didn’t tell you that the location wasn’t safe and he didn’t activate the backup comms link to base, so we had LOS pretty much straight after that, because I think the table was flipped, so all of the instruments were smashed. We can give an idea, though. You kept going with the planned mission, while Agent Barton was captured briefly and a bit roughed up. He-” 

 

I cut him off with a derisive snort. “Sorry, a  _ bit roughed up _ ? I’m pretty sure that getting hamstrung is not the same?”

 

Doctor Boy shook his head a little. “He was hit by that on his escape from them, we think. He wasn’t that coherent when we were talking to him. But Agent Barton jumped out of a window and into the street, correct?” 

 

I nodded, fairly sure that he was right. 

 

“And you guided him back to the safehouse, where you picked up the field kit and satellite phone. At some stage in the proceedings, you were shot at, but your vest stopped the round. You killed the attacker with a knife to the throat. You then exited the safehouse, and called us.” His hands wrung each other nervously, and he was still stood a safe distance from the bed. I supposed that caution is probably wise in a place like this, where you never really knew who was going to wake up and how they would react. “We told you to find a place a distance away that could be easily defended, and you chose a dead-end alley, so there was no chance of an ambush. SHIELD instructed you to stay put, so you settled down and performed first aid on Agent Barton. I might add that he’s very grateful.”

 

My brow furrowed. “He said that?” 

 

The boy shook his head slightly. “No, but you saved his life and I’ve been told to say that you did exactly the right thing by elevating his leg instead of trying to get the weapon out yourself. The surgeons nicked an artery trying to sort him out once he was in. Had that happened in the field, there would’ve been nothing you could do.”

 

It felt very strange to be congratulated about something that I couldn’t remember doing, but I gave a small nod regardless, and a tiny motion with my hand for him to continue. 

 

He gave an awkward sort of bob, before continuing. “It looked like three guys escaped and came to find you, which they did. They’d all got their heads neatly blown off, so you fired three shots, and neighbour reports say that they heard six, so we had a quick scout for them and found one in one of the guys’ vest, one in the wall literally two inches above your head, and one in your chest.”

 

Yikes, so  _ that’s  _ why my chest hurt. “Oh. Okay.” 

 

“You seem unsurprised.” The guy held his hands out cautiously as if to balance himself, or possibly me if I went crazy.

 

“I’m not actually that surprised. It explains a lot. One question though: wasn’t I wearing a vest?” 

 

“It was an armour-piercing round.” The guy seemed pretty done with the fact that I knew nothing about the equipment I had been given. I guess it was fair considering the fact that he was a medic, or at least I assumed so, and knew more than I did. 

 

“So why wear a vest at all?” 

 

“You’re pretty lucky that you were wearing a SHIELD vest: they’re literally the best there is. A normal vest and you’d be a lot more dead than you are now. As in medically dead. People don’t generally survive having their chest cracked open like an egg.”

 

I wrinkled my nose. “Dude, I did  _ not  _ need that picture. So I’m going to assume that my chest wasn’t ‘cracked open like an egg’, but what’s actually wrong with it?” 

 

“You cracked your sternum.” Yikes. “The vest was slightly compromised by the previous shot to a similar spot.” 

 

“Um,  _ ow _ . Also why did you say that  _ I  _ cracked it? Like, I didn’t shoot myself?” The medic glared at me. Okay, not a person for light humour. 

 

“As I was saying, you will be on injury leave and then deskbound for at least the next six weeks. You-”

 

“Deskbound? I’m  _ dyslexic _ , man. I can’t fill out paperwork if it smacks me in the face!” 

 

“ _ As I was saying _ , you will be given a full physical exam after the six week period. If you have not healed to the satisfaction of the examiner, you will be deskbound for a further two weeks. After being cleared, you will return to a reduced training schedule until your PT is complete and you are cleared for a second time for active field duty. This-” he gestured to a little remote that was attached by a cable to the side of the bed, “is your bed control. You can use it to sit up or recline without doing it yourself. This,” a handy red button, “is your call button. Press if you need anything. Do get some rest, Agent Jackson.” 

 

He practically legged it from the room. 

 

I sighed deeply. What sort of bullshit advice was  _ get some rest  _ after unloading all of that on a guy?

 

o0O0o

 

Agent Coulson dropped by two days later. “How are you holding up?” He asked in the most casual voice I could never imagine for him. He was still wearing his impeccable two-piece suit, though, so I wasn’t totally convinced that I was either hallucinating or dying and seeing a vision of Coulson. 

 

“Everything hurts, but apart from that? Fine.”

 

His lips twitched imperceptibly. “Have you been authorised to see Barton yet? He was in a  wheelchair this morning and raring to explore. By ‘raring to explore’, I mean ‘dying to burn down the med bay’. I think that he might go insane.”

 

I snorted a little and instantly regretted it, spending a brief moment schooling my features into neutrality and trying not to curse as the top of my lungs. “ _ He’s  _ restless? I’m the one with ADHD.”

 

“Which is why I was hoping to wheel him in to see you. That is if you are ready for him.” Coulson sent a knowing wry smile in my direction. 

 

“I think I’d better take him off the hands of the staff for a few minutes.”

 

Coulson stood, smoothing out invisible crinkles in his suit. “I thought you might say that. I’ll tell him not to break you. After all, you are one of our best junior agents.”

 

I called at his retreating back, “Tell him not to break himself!” 

 

I could’ve sworn I heard Coulson  _ chuckle  _ at that as he left. Was he even the robot I knew and loved anymore? 

 

Three or so minutes later, he wheeled in the most hyper Clint that I had ever seen, and all but legged it from the room. 

 

Clint wheeled himself over to my bedside as quickly as he could, eyebrows raising and crinkling the gauze on his forehead. “Yikes, and I thought my broken leg-slash-blood loss-slash-snapped Achilles tendon was bad.” 

 

“Yeah, getting shot twice in the sternum would do that to a guy, even if it was through protective body armour, because apparently armour piercing rounds exist. What’s the point in wearing a vest if it’s not gonna save you?” I slumped as softly as I could against my pillows. 

 

“You hope for the best?” Okay, fair. “Besides, if they’d gone for the head you’d already be dead.” 

 

“Thanks, and they did. Look.” I tilted my head a little so that he could see the bullet crease that just nicked the top of my left ear. “Never gonna be symmetrical again.”

 

Clint snorted. “You never were with your crooked nose.”

 

I raised a hand to my nose, suddenly a little self-conscious. It wasn’t  _ that  _ crooked. “Okay, but the guy who punched me was totally asking for it!”

 

“What, your  _ stepdad _ ?” I couldn’t tell if I was happy, or ticked-off that we could joke about what I’d been through like this, but I let it slide, because it didn’t hurt too much; who ever said that humour was an unhealthy coping mechanism?

 

“Yeah, so? I actually started the fight that time around. Anyway, enough about how hideous I am, what about you? Nobody’s told me  _ anything _ . I can barely even remember it.” 

 

“I’m gonna be unhelpful there, I’m afraid, given that I spent most of that time barely conscious. I do remember being jumped, being told to ‘run like a hare’ and cut down as they laughed, and chucking myself out of a window. Not my finest hour. After that, it’s pretty patchy. I was cold, I think.” His voice tailed off a little, dejection behind the drugged brightness of his gaze. He perked up again a second later. “ _ But  _ I’ve been told that I’m gonna have a wicked scar here on my arm,” he raised his left arm to display a huge bandage, “where I was apparently stabbed by glass, which I don’t remember, and on my heel.” 

 

“Well, I’m gonna have a bullet scar so I win on coolness.” God, we sounded like three year olds bickering about whose toy car was the best, or nine year olds discussing their Nerf guns, not full-grown adults who had genuinely nearly died just a few days prior. 

 

Clint’s face dropped comically all of a sudden, and he leaned dangerously far forwards to whisper conspiratorially (i.e. really loudly because he was super high), “but we’re gonna be stuck on DESK JOBS for all eternity! Is this worth it?” 

 

“One,  _ no _ , two, how high are you? One to ten?” 

 

He wrinkled his nose a little as he considered, pulling himself back to seating with some effort, “about nine and a half? The pain meds made me super spacey so I’m on something else that’s made me really hyper.” 

 

“Thanks for that, Sherlock,” I replied dryly. “Nobody here had  _ any idea  _ that you were hyper.” 

 

“They didn’t?” His eyes widened again. “ _ Really _ ?” 

 

Oh God, hyper Clint didn’t get sarcasm. “ _ No _ , doofus, we all realised.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Anyway,” I rubbed my eyes, “I get out of bedrest in a week and into PT. What about you?”

 

Clint sighed. “I’ve been in PT for the past two days and, honesty, it’s a bitch. Stick to bedrest.” There was normal Clint. “ _ But  _ I’m supposedly not actually allowed to do anything that could resemble actual exercise for at least six weeks.”

 

I gave the tiniest semblance of a shrug. “I’m not allowed to breathe too deeply for six weeks, but I also have to breathe deeply or I’ll get pneumonia and die. It’s like: breathe deeply. No, not like that. Like this, i.e. what I just did. It’s great, honestly.”

 

“Also,” there was a pleading note in his voice that I didn’t like, “they’re saying that a good way to strengthen up my leg again is to swim. The issue is...” he hid his face and mumbled, “I’m not actually sure how to swim apart from like doggy paddle.” Yikes. Although I had to admit that I’d noticed during the training thing.

 

“So you want me to teach you?” I raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

I considered for a moment. “Sure. But in six week’s time, if not longer.” 

 

Clint threw his head back dramatically and gave a loud, long-suffering groan. “ _ Really? _ ”

 

“Dude, you’re in a  _ wheelchair _ . And you’re in plaster to your knee. And I’m not allowed to move. What, did you think I’d jump out of bed and into the pool?” 

 

He shrugged. “Sorta?” 

 

“Oh, you idiot.” But he was my idiot.

 

o0O0o

 

If Clint was ever right about anything, it was that PT was a goddamn bitch. 

 

_ Weeks  _ listening to your trainer trying to psych you up and ‘control your breathing, Agent Jackson, that’s right’, while your stupid bones healed  _ so slowly  _ it was agonising. Metaphorically and literally, I mean. 

 

Six weeks in, and I was  _ so ready  _ to be cleared, even if just partially. But nope, not happening, because that stupid good-for-nothing bone in the middle of my chest still had a crack in it. Stupid body.

 

And all the  _ paperwork _ . Stupid senior agents chucking us their mission reports to type up and process and file and make coffee for them and  _ read _ . Coulson also took our injury leave as an opportunity for us to brush up on our theory and learning, so we were given  _ even more books  _ to read. Because I just  _ love  _ reading, because it’s so  _ incredibly  _ easy for me to do. Luckily, after a couple of days he realised that he’d made a mistake and emailed some audiobooks to my SHIELD email address. This was doubly great, because I didn’t have to read the stupid books  _ and  _ I could ignore people under the pretense that I hadn’t heard them.

 

After my additional two-week torture, I was  _ finally  _ cleared for a ‘reduced training schedule’, which basically meant ‘do what you like to make yourself strong again’. 

 

Which meant swimming lessons, which I had most definitely not forgotten.

 

So that was how Clint and I, the limper and the one who can’t breathe, ended up in the SHIELD pool at stupid-o-clock because who actually sleeps anyway. I spent a good ten minutes trying to work out the controls for the floor (the floor moved up and down: how cool is that?), before eventually just pressing random buttons until the display read ‘5ft’, which Clint could stand in, just in case he started drowning.

 

Unfortunately, my technical prowess didn’t extend to the main lights, so we were lit only by the ‘night-lights’, which were a few muted strips in the ceiling and rows of little spots just under the water level (once again, awesome). Never mind, who needs to see?

 

“Show me your best front crawl,” I instructed Clint.

 

“My what?” Jesus Christ, this was going to be a long hour. Clint’s indignant voice echoed in the near-darkness (swimming pools literally always have terrible acoustics).

 

“Okay, float in the water on your front, but hold up your face so that you don’t drown. No, not like that. Okay, okay, stop, you’re going to die. Watch me. This is called ‘sculling’, and will help you to not drown.” I demonstrated, arms and legs spread eagled, gently kicking my legs and drawing my arms back and forth over the surface of the water. 

 

Clint looked bewildered, and proceeded to flounder like a dying fish. He was worse than those nine year olds I taught.

 

“Stop, stop. We’re going to the side.” I led him over to the edge of the pool, and instructed him to place his hands on the side and kick gently to try and get his body position right. “Float! Float! Float!” I chanted. He glared at me, but kept kicking. 

 

“Is that better?”

 

“Shockingly, yes. Next, we’re going to get you a pull buoy, don’t ask, and teach you what to do with your arms.” 

 

I climbed out and found my way to the (relatively well-stocked) cupboard, finding a pull buoy in one of the equipment bins (like a storage bin, not a rubbish bin) and lobbing it at Clint, who caught it with the most confused expression I have ever seen, and I’ve taught nine year olds. “Put it between your legs, just above your knees.” He complied, before pitching forwards as his legs floated to the surface, a look of mild terror visible on his face as it entered the water with a dull splash. 

 

I sighed, and climbed back in, picking him up by his shoulder. “Body position was good. Put your goggles on.” He groaned, but did as instructed.  “Now, the easiest way to do this is to watch me do it above water slowly and try and mimic my actions. You need to have a high elbow when it’s above the water, and fingers face down and not over there somewhere. Fingers enter the water just before your arm is fully extended.” I demonstrated the technique slowly, and gestured for him to try. 

 

He copied my technique almost perfectly, eyes narrowed in concentration under his clear goggles, dark scar on his forehead wrinkling slightly. 

 

“Good. Now float on the water and try that.” 

 

Clint lowered himself back onto the water, and tried to get his arms to move properly. The movement was sort of half-aborted and jerky, but not bad for someone who had literally never done it in their life. After about four strokes he came up for air, gasping a little. 

 

I shrugged. “Not bad for a first try. Now try to make the whole thing one action. Nice and smooth.” 

 

“What about breathing?” 

 

“Overrated. One thing at a time. Go on then.” 

 

He glared at me without any heat, and tried again, movement visibly smoother, but he was still clunking his hand into the water at the front of the stroke. It was a start, though. Maybe he had a point with breathing.

 

“Okay, so we’ll do breathing now because you have a point. Basically, you breathe to the side during a stroke, like this.” I exaggerated turing my head to take a breath as I mimed a long stroke. 

 

He nodded slowly, then proceeded to gulp in about half the pool as he attempted to do it, coming to the surface in spluttering indignation. “What was that for bullshit advice?” he demanded, without that much heat.

 

I shrugged. “You’re the one who did it wrong.”

 

He gave a petulant glare. 

 

“Try again,” I ordered. “Keep kicking while you breathe, and tip your head far enough. But don’t look all the way up at the ceiling.” 

 

He tried again, with a little more success (i.e. not more choking). “I think I’m getting the hang of this!” 

 

“You’re learning fast, I’ll give you that. Now go again.” 

 

o0O0o

 

Nearly two hours later, and Clint was dead on his feet, but pretty pleased with himself. We’d continue working on swimming every morning until he was confident enough to use it for fitness and strength building. One morning, when I was heading back to my room to gather my stuff before heading to the office, while Clint was at the archery range (that I was pretty sure they had installed especially for him), I rounded a corner to find Coulson standing there.

 

“Hello, Agent Jackson.” At this point, I’d learnt that if someone referred to you as ‘Agent’ they wanted something. 

 

“Uh, hi.” 

 

“I’ve noticed what you’ve been doing with Agent Barton every morning.” Oh, okay, Mr Stalker Dude. “I was hoping that while you were still desk bound you could help some other junior agents who aren’t so strong on their swimming. Personally, I believe that it is a vital skill needed for missions.” He folded his arms. “I believe you have a coaching qualification and also are a trained lifeguard.” 

 

“Yeah, I guess. I think my lifeguard certificate has expired, though. I need to take the test again, and-” 

 

Coulson cut in before I could say anything ese. “Excellent, please can these lessons be every Monday morning at 7am. Thank you.” And then he left. You know, like a jerk. 

 

Fuck, what did I just sign up to?

 

I traipsed morosely down the corridor to go and find some  _ paperwork _ .

 

o0O0o

 

Swimming coaching was pretty torturous, but not significantly worse than teaching nine-year-olds. Like sure, it was worrying how many of these ‘elite’ junior agents didn’t know how to do anything beyond a doggy paddle or a half hearted front crawl, but they’d had The Whinge™ beaten out of them by now. 

 

And the painstakingly slow recovery process for both Clint and I was worth it, if only for the moment I watched him execute a perfect somersault from the end of the parkour course and roll perfectly into his landing, standing up with the broadest grin plastered over his face and not the slightest hint of a limp in his stride. A surge of pride coursed through my body, and it was in that moment that I realised that I cared for him like a brother that I’d never had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that very long chapter. Leave a comment with your feelings, give us kudos, go crazy.   
> See you later


	9. 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, we're actually tying up a couple of loose ends., and Nat's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry it's been so long. Our teachers have decided that now is the perfect time to ramp up the homework, as well as telling us to revise. fun. (if you're new and haven't read the authors' notes before, hi there are two of us)

**\- 2015**

 

2015 started off with a bang, literally. Sure, Coulson had been sending us out on easier missions than our first one, but that wasn’t exactly hard. So it led to a gunfight on New Year’s Eve, whoo!

 

While every other human on the planet was celebrating the new year, we were running for our lives and trying not to get shot (done that before, 0/10 do not recommend). Unusually, Jason Grace had been shoved on this mission along with us, so we weren’t the only unlucky fuckers. 

 

As Jason and I sprinted through the warehouse, I pressed a hand to my comms to talk to Clint. “How are you doing?” My voice crackled through the intercom.

 

“I haven’t been shot yet, so pretty good on the whole.” I laughed as I heard Jason make a sputtering sound on the other side of the comms. 

 

“Is that what qualifies as good?” 

 

Clint and I replied with a joint hum of “yes” and “absolutely”. 

 

“Yikes.”

 

“Well, newbie, you’ve got a lot to learn,” I commented wryly. “If we live, let’s go out for drinks. We’re not 21, but we’ve got those forged IDs that Coulson straight up gave to us.”

 

I heard affirmation from both parties on the end of the comms link. 

 

Clint’s voice crackled through again just a few seconds later. “I’ve got a shot at the leader.”

 

“Do it,” I replied without a second’s thought. There was more sputtering from Jason, but no statement to the contrary.

 

I fancied that I could hear the difference in the shots: where the enemy’s was frantic and ineffective, Clint’s was surgical in its precision. The gunfire eased but didn’t cease altogether, providing the opportunity to move from our scattered positions and regroup.

 

“Are we just gonna shoot ‘em out so that e can leave as quickly as possible?” Jason asked. “I’m knackered.” 

 

“Aren’t we all. And yes, there is no plan. Stick together and shoot them to hell. I _ want _ that drink. God knows we need to get off base.”

 

Clint grinned, inserting a fresh clip into his rather large and terrifying assault rifle. Because sure, give the biggest, most destructive weapon to the youngest kid without any impulse control. He raised it to his shoulder and checked the scope. “Let’s do this.” 

 

We spread out, leaving Clint to take out the majority, while Jason and I did it at close range, affording him some protection. I noticed that Jason fought well, but in a very deliberate and straight-laced fashion, like someone fighting in a big military line. He didn’t seem the kind of guy who kick a downed man, which was unfortunate as that was quite literally our job.

 

The fight was short but vicious, ending as quickly as it had begun, and (shockingly) without any major injuries: the worst was a shallow cut on my knife arm from a lucky bayonet (who even still uses those?) swipe.

 

Clint joined us a few seconds later, gun still idly smoking. “I think I need a shower,” he moaned. “‘Feels like I’m gonna have to rip my skin off to get rid of this vest.” 

 

“Oh, stop moping. At least you’re not dying this time. Let’s get back and meet after ten for those drinks. I think we’ve earned them.” 

 

o0O0o

 

Maybe in the heat of the moment I’d forgotten how much I  _ loathed  _ alcohol with a burning passion. I settled for a giant Coke and watched the pub get more and more wasted. Jason had no such qualms and could  _ not  _ hold his liquor, which made for some amusing escapades. I had to pretty much carry him back while he professed his undying love for me. Clint, on the other hand, had downed seven shots of vodka, could still walk and was almost coherent. Maybe Nat had taught him how to drink like a Russian all those years ago (three years ago). 

 

Happy New Year. Thank you for that, SHIELD. 

 

I considered leaving Jason with a large glass of water and maybe a painkiller, but decided against it. He could suffer (it would be funny). Clint walked straight into a door frame, then sat down on the floor and looked confused until I pointed out which room was his (maybe he was drunker than he looked). He mumbled something that I couldn’t understand (maybe because he told me the following day that it was in some obscure Latvian dialect, because why not) before closing his door with more force than he probably wanted to use. 

 

I stumbled back to my own room, not drunk but tired, and promptly collapsed on my own bed. I hoped half-heartedly that SHIELD would stop trying to send us into so many gun fights. Couldn’t I have some sort of quiet mission, or something remotely not gang related?

 

o0O0o

 

Turns out that my prayers were answered (or not, depending on your perspective) two weeks later, when Coulson came barging into the junior agent shared common room. James, Milly, one of the other junior agents, Clint and I were in the middle of a rather frantic game of Irish snap (only one injury sustained so far and no fights yet), when he dryly cleared his throat. “Agents Barton and Jackson, a word?” 

 

We hastily got to our feet and followed him quickly to one of the briefing rooms. “You’re both officially being promoted to Level 6, so that this mission is appropriate for your ears. Congratulations.” 

 

I’m pretty sure that’s not how clearance levels work, but go off I guess. “Is it just a SHIELD thing?” Coulson shot me a quizzical look. “You know, getting bumped up three levels at a time.” 

 

“Desperate times, desperate measures. And we can clear you as we see fit. Consider yourselves fully fledged agents now.” He placed a manila folder with a USB attached to it in front of each of us. “Here is your mission briefing. It says that it is primarily a surveillance task, but if you have the opportunity to take the kill shot, it is within the mission parameters for you to do it.”

 

Clint and I exchanged a  _ Look _ . “Uhh, okay.” 

 

I flipped open the folder to reveal the target’s name, Sonya Alianova. Code Name:  Чёрная Вдова. There was no picture. 

 

I looked up at Coulson. “Her code name is Black Widow?”

 

“Yes.” His answer was curt and clearly anything else was above my pay grade (which, by the way, was shockingly low, given that I nearly died on pretty much a daily basis).

 

“Okay, so where are we going?” Clint straightened up in his chair. 

 

“Srednekolymsk, Russia. It’s in the North-East and by North-East, I mean  _ North-East. _ ”

 

“Sounds… cold?” Honestly, I hadn’t a clue.

 

o0O0o

 

And that was how we ended up on a freezing cold Quinjet above Northern Siberia. Because apparently it was so cold that all heating power had to be diverted to the engine to stop it from freezing over, and there was no capacity left for the cabin. Yay. They parachuted us a couple of miles out of town and gave us instructions as to how to find the warehouse that we were going to survey. SHIELD had equipped us with little body cams before we left, ensuring that Coulson could see what was happening and give us instructions as necessary, because after the Lawrence fiasco, he didn’t trust us with anybody else. 

 

The two of us shivered in our fake-fur-lined tactical gear that made us look like marshmallows. It was  _ cold _ . Also pretty much always dark, because the Arctic Circle is festive like that. 

 

I raised a pair of night-vision goggles/binocular things to my eyes and squinted through into the now-green murk. “I think I can see the warehouse, but it might be a large shrub. Everything’s covered in snow, so, ya know.”

 

Clint snatched the goggles and peered through them himself. “That’s the warehouse. You can tell because there’s a chimney, dumbass. Shrubs don’t  _ generally  _ have chimneys.”

 

Oh. 

 

We approached the warehouse as quietly as we could (which wasn’t very quietly because of the crunching of snow beneath our feet). When we finally got there, there was a symbol painted on one of the walls: a message for anyone that found it and knew what they were looking for. A spider was painted onto the wall with an hourglass on its back. Clint traced it with his fingers. “The Black Widow,” he breathed.

 

“Dude, is this spy like your childhood crush or something?” 

 

Clint’s face reddened slightly. “She’s always been a bit of an idol for me. Never caught, you know.” 

 

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you there before you ramble about how amazing she is. I think that this might be a trap. Ya know,  _ maybe _ .”

 

We ventured towards the actual entrance of warehouse, before doing one final check and going inside. The warehouse itself was pretty typical, so I’ll save you the boring detail and just jump to the exciting bit. 

 

Clint and I split up immediately; Clint heading for the upper levels (i.e. rafters and overhead walkways, because for some crazy reason he likes being close to potentially fatal drops), while I scouted the ground floor. In one corner, there was a mattress and duvet, and in another a single, barren desk. “Coulson,” I pressed my fingers to my comms, “are you getting this? She seems kind of-” 

 

I was cut off by a gunshot and two cries of pain, one male and one female. 

 

“Hawkeye down,” Coulson chanted in my ear. “Hawkeye down.” 

 

I didn’t reply, crushing myself instantly into the floor on pure instinct, knowing full well that a deadly assassin was currently in the warehouse with me and she’d attacked and possibly killed Clint and I didn’t want her to catch me and-

 

I cut off my hyperactive train of thought. It wasn’t helping me. My focus narrowed to a pinpoint: stay alive. 

 

There were darker shadows in the corners, so that was where I stayed. And then I heard the voice. “Clint?” Something clattered from the rafters with an ugly clang. The dull light glinted off a silvered barrel in the middle of the floor. 

 

I stopped everything I was doing, even breathing. I knew that voice; it was-

 

“Tasha.” Clint’s voice sounded pained as he exhaled her name over both my comms and through the warehouse. 

 

Coulson decided to pipe in then, not exactly screaming but most definitely no longer calm. “What is  _ happening  _ in there? Report,  _ now _ !” 

 

I took a deep breath and stepped very slowly out into the dimly-lit interior. My tongue rasped against my dry mouth, but I still managed to raise my voice loud enough to echo throughout the building. “Natasha? Clint? This is Percy.  _ Don’t shoot _ .” 

 

A rope hit the ground with a dull thump, and a lithe figure shimmied down, steady but not looking dangerously hurt. 

 

Natasha Romanoff had a split lip and an arrow stuck in her thigh, but somehow still looked effortlessly fabulous. It wasn’t fair. She cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowing in a mildly deadly fashion. When she spoke, her voice was cold and flat, devoid of emotion. “Are you here to kill me, Percy?” 

 

Coulson’s voice thundered through my ear. “Shoot to kill, now. Goddamnit Jackson, what  _ are  _ you doing?”

 

I muttered a soft “wait” before approaching Natasha. “Not if I can help it.” I shoved my gun back into its holster to emphasise the fact, ignoring Coulson’s voice. “We’re with SHIELD now.” 

 

She laughed softly. “So the Little Hawk did get what he wanted in the end.” I almost snorted at that, given that Clint was still up in the rafters with a bullet in him, but decided not to ruin the moment.

 

“And so can you.” I was not expecting those words to come out of my mouth and neither was Natasha. “If you help to patch Clint up, you might be able to convince the guys at SHIELD that you don’t want to be an illegal assassin forever. And- Overwatch, with all due respect, shut up. I can’t hear myself think.”

 

Coulson spluttered indignantly. I threatened to break my comm in retaliation and he quickly fell silent with a half-hearted claim about ‘firing’ (at) me. 

 

“So, yeah, join SHIELD; it would be nice to have another friend on board.” I held out my hand for a shake and she reciprocated. “Now, let’s go stop Clint from bleeding out.” 

 

Nat looked a little sheepish at that. “Yeah, maybe. There’s some first aid stuff in that corner.” She pointed and I fetched. She was injured, after all.

 

Natasha wiggled her way up the rope towards Clint, before gesturing to me to follow her up from the shadows of the rafters. I shoved the handle of the first aid kit in my mouth before channeling all of my upper body strength and maneuvering my way up the rope towards Clint’s slight moans of pain.

 

I tossed Nat the med kit as I yanked myself up onto the rafters in rather an ungainly fashion (the rope was thin and slippery. Give a guy a break).”Hey, buddy,” I addressed Clint, “How you feeling?” 

 

“Like I was shot in the fucking arm.” Okay, so what was I actually expecting?

 

“Apart from that?” 

 

“It’s cold in here. And this rafter is hard and uncomfortable. And I was betrayed by someone who I thought was a  _ friend _ . Nat, I am so betrayed! I will never forgive you!” He laid his head back dramatically and winced. 

 

Nat glanced up from where she looked like she was psyching herself up to rip an arrowhead out of her thigh and rolled her eyes. “Of course, birdbrain.”

 

“Anyway, say hello to SHIELD’s newest recruit, if I get my way.” I pressed a finger to my comms. “Huh, Coulson? What is your answer?” 

 

Coulson gave a deep, long-suffering sigh. “I suppose, but only because you’re two of our most promising agents and otherwise I’d have to shoot you all. I’ll trust your judgement on this one.”

 

“Yay! Overwatch, this is why you’re my favourite.”

 

“Say that one more time and I actually will shoot you.” 

 

“Whatever you say... Overwatch.”

 

“That’s not what I-”

 

“Over-watch, Over-watch!” 

 

Clint narrowed a brow. “Percy, did you hit your head or something? You’re kinda high-sounding.” 

 

I glanced down at the open first aid kit. “No, but that open canister  _ might  _ say ‘oxygen’ on it. I’m not sure, my Russian doesn’t extend to chemical elements.”

 

Clint groaned. “I’m gonna die here.”

 

o0O0o

 

Mom and Paul’s wedding anniversary was in May, and oh boy, was I going to make it special. I booked their favourite restaurant (the one they had gone to on their first date, and every one afterwards, because they’re dorks) and then I called in a favour with a guy I knew from high school who ran one of the horse and carriage companies in Central Park. 

 

The actual day was thankfully sunny and I was going to make it so adorable it would be sickening. Not to mention that I hadn’t told either of them that I was due home from work  _ for once _ . 

 

Clint and I drove the distance up to New York, both not wanting to go in a plane after our last mission involved a hijacker. Pro tip: guns in pressurised containers equal death. Good job I was wearing a parachute. 

 

Our next job was to somehow park the car and get into the apartment with a large bouquet of flowers without being spotted by the couple. Our spy training came in handy, but we didn’t want to look  _ too  _ suspicious and get reported to the police, because bailing out your son probably wouldn’t be the best wedding anniversary ever. We ran up the fire escape to the window of what used to be my room, and then Clint’s, and quietly jimmied the window. We clambered in and immediately set to work. Clint removed the vent cover discreetly, leaving me standing on guard. He gave me a thumbs up before grabbing the flowers and the card we had written for them and shuffling into the vents. I recognised the familiar quiet creaking of Clint doing surveillance, and then I received the all-clear on my comms. 

 

(Yes, we had brought comms from work because we were extra and wanted it to be a really big surprise. Also to piss off the too-proper technicians in charge of them.)

 

I opened the window slightly wider, because it was always more difficult to get out than to get in, and watched as Cint gracefully dropped to the floor from the ceiling vent. “Done.”

I grinned in response. “Okay, let’s get outta here.”

 

Clint folded himself neatly through the window and I followed with a little less poise, shutting it behind me and not-quite chasing him down the fire escape because we were both incredibly mature.

 

We raced to the restaurant (after grabbing a change of clothes and getting changed in the back of the Inconspicuous Van™, which we’d kind of unofficially booked out aka stolen, because sitting in a posh restaurant in tac gear is a bad idea), having booked tables for both Mom and Paul, and us. We hoped that they would notice the incredibly conspicuous notecard and enormous bouquet of flowers when they got back from work and actually go to the restaurant for the time written there (we’d let them know in advance that it was a surprise and to charge it to the official SHIELD tab, which I’d nicked the details for. It was a ‘work perk’, if anyone asked). I sat down at our table, hand running up and down my legs nervously. “This will work, right?”

 

Clint made a ‘pfft’ noise. “Of course it will, how unobservant do you think Mom is?” 

 

I froze. Did he just call Mom ‘Mom’?

 

Clint stared at me in concern. “Why are you grinning like that?” He spun around to look behind him, looking concerningly like an excited puppy. “Are they here?”

 

I shook my head gently. “No, but people are going to look at us funny if you keep bouncing in your seat. You’re supposed to be a  _ spy _ . Blend in!” 

 

“Yeah, but can I ask again, why are you smiling?

 

“You just called  _ my  _ mom ‘Mom.”

 

Clint snorted. “No, I didn’t.”

 

“For an assassin with over  _ 100 _ confirmed and nearly 200 accredited kills (yes I read your file; shut up) you are a  _ terrible  _ liar.”

 

“You read my... Nevermind, the point still stands: no, I didn’t.” 

 

“You so di- shhhhhhh!” 

 

Mom and Paul walked into the restaurant, looked a little bewildered. Clint and I spun around in our seats and put on the very best ‘random civilian’ personas that we had. I loved this bit, randomly chatting about the mundane things like how Clint’s ‘dog’ and ‘sister’ were doing while he spewed nonsense about the weather forecast and how the only people who lied more than weather people were politicians. 

 

The waitress took our order and then Mom and Paul’s, doing a constant routine throughout the meal going from table to table. At the end, when it was our time to pay the bill, I pulled out the SHIELD credit card and thrust it in her direction. “Can I pay for both tables, please?”

 

The waitress's eyes widened as she realised that the weirdly (hey, SHIELD suits are cheap and fit all weird to go over bulletproof vests, which we weren’t wearing) dressed slightly scruffy twenty year old was paying for a meal for two far more mature looking adults. “Okay.” She let me insert the card into the machine, eyeing me tentatively as if she expected the card to bounce at any moment. Rude. 

 

It didn’t bounce, and a rather enormous amount of money was put straight through for Coulson (probably, as our handler) to deal with later. She thanked us rather kindly considering how rude she’d been earlier, and then moved onto my parents’ table to tell them that their meal had been fully paid for by me. 

 

Mom then kicked up a minor fuss of ‘no no no why did they do that who even is it- oh’.

 

I waved. “Hey guys. Happy anniversary.”

 

Mom’s face flipped through emotions like a kid with a picture book: angry to happy to amused to angry to joyful. “Perseus Jackson!”

 

I smiled, only a tad awkwardly. “Surprise?” 

 

“Yes, surprise indeed.” She folded her arms. “You couldn't have just sent a card like a normal person?”

 

I scoffed. “ _ No _ .”

 

Clint, eloquent as always, snorted behind me, alerting Mom to his presence. “And you, Clinton Francis Barton, don’t you dare pretend that you aren’t just as involved as he is!”

 

Clint froze in that way that he did  _ only  _ when Mom gave him the Talking To™. Seriously, the guy can walk into a firefight without a flinch, cool as anything, but Mom? She terrifies him. I hear the words “How does she know my middle name?” slip out of his mouth before he went completely stock still. 

 

I grinned guiltily. “Mom knows  _ all _ , Francis.”

 

He glowered good-naturedly. 

 

Mom hastily thanked the waitress and got ready to leave, gesturing for us to come with. We slid out of our chairs, possibly with the kind of grace that most people get mildly concerned by, but hey, perks of being a spy ‘n all that. We headed home to our little apartment that contained our family. 

 

“What are you doing back in New York?” Mom grabbed one of the couch cushions and hugged it around her midsection, looking a little lost, but very happy nonetheless. 

 

“We took the time off to come and see you guys. Treat you even. You deserve it, especially having to deal with me and this one.” I elbowed Clint lightly in the stomach. He tensed almost imperceptibly, training coming to the forefront as he fought to not launch himself in my direction. Might’ve messed up the living room. Yikes.

 

o0O0o

 

Nat was about four months into her SHIELD probation when they finally let her go out on a mission with us. I think they were scared of her tearing the place down in boredom (which was probably a justified concern). The mission was out in the middle of Tajikistan,which was, in my opinion, weird as fuck. Not that questioning SHIELD ever got you anywhere.

 

Sure, it was the lowest-level low-level mission that they could’ve picked, but it meant that the stakes were low, so SHIELD could extract Clint and I if Nat decided to go feral. It was drugs bust and an easy one at that; we’d been given the times and dates of the border crossing, told that there was only one feasible border in a mountain pass between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, where the drugs were being transported to. 

 

We were stood by said mountain pass as we waited silently from above for the drug smugglers to arrive at their stupidly easy to find crossing point. It was cold. I shivered miserably while Nat just produced these vodka miniatures from somewhere in her coat (“Nat, how on  _ Earth  _ did you smuggle those out?”) and handed us each one without a word, eyes clearly displaying her ‘shut up’ message as she knocked hers back in one, neatly capping the bottle and putting it back into her coat. I shrugged before downing it despite any misgivings (I was cold. Did I mention that?), while Clint looked down at it skeptically. “Maybe I’ll have it later.” I realised suddenly that giving alcohol to someone who was abused by an alcoholic probably wasn’t a good idea. He shoved the bottle into his coat pocket before fiddling with the drawstring of his bow, muttering something about cold making it brittle.

 

“Back in my day,” Natasha burst out, trying to break the tension that was building, “Tajikistan wasn’t even close to being an  _ oblast _ , let alone a country.” 

 

I wasn’t sure what any of that meant. “Okay.” 

 

Clint’s head shot up. “Nat,  _ oblasts  _ are from the Soviet Union. It said that Tajikistan became part of the Soviet Union in 1919. How old even are you?” 

 

Nat pulled a knife out of some hidden pocket of her coat, took off a glove, and starting filing her nails with it. “Older than you, and that’s all you’re going to know.” I didn’t question it: questioning Nat when she’d being cryptic gets you an even more cryptic answer or a knife in a non-vital part of your body (if you’re lucky).

 

“Nat, you are  _ going  _ to get frostbite.” 

 

She snorted. “Frostbite is for babies.” I was pretty sure that wasn’t how it worked, but she was currently holding a knife and I wasn’t, so I wasn’t arguing. 

 

Clint burrowed deeper into his thick, winter-camouflage coat until only his eyes were really visible. They were erring on the side of murderous, I’ll admit. His breath clouded in front of him, giving the impression of a bundled-up and pissed-off blond-ish dragon.

 

As much as I hated to admit it, the alcohol was warming my insides quite pleasantly and taking the edge off of the biting wind that swept across the desolate moonscape. By this time (by which I mean slightly drunken time, since I had almost never consumed alcohol before and was fairly sure that Nat’s miniature was both illegally strong and rather large, so well over a unit) I had completely accepted that it wasn’t the alcohol that had haunted my past, but instead Gabe’s putrid personality showing itself in the form of abuse. Not that it meant that I was going to drink much myself, but dire needs in dire circumstances and all that. Plus I quite liked my toes to stay attached to my feet.

 

I shuddered again as I heard a crunch of feet on the icy snow below us. Are you kidding: they were trying to smuggle drugs on foot? How dumb can you get? How dumb do you have to be to be  _ here  _ anyway (looking at you, SHIELD)? 

 

All three of us sprang into action with Clint nocking his bow (he’d been stubborn and flat-out refused the rifle, saying that the cold would cause it to jam or something equally stupid. The unknowing techies just gave in, eventually), and Nat and I heading as quickly and silently as we could down the mountains to meet the illegal drug smugglers below us. 

 

I mean, we were both spies, so we were  _ quiet _ (quieter than the oafs beneath us, anyway, not that it was difficult), but Nat was genuinely soundless and my slightly drunken brain did think for a brief moment that she was actually a ghost come to kill us all, because who is completely silent on  _ snow _ ? (Not me, that’s fucking who.)

 

I whispered into the comms, confirming our orders (shoot to kill: these guys were all also arms dealers to the black market as well as drug smugglers, apparently), before slipping down to cover the rear of the convoy (if that’s what you all it when it’s people), preparing to box them in. Nat was going to be the dramatic person at the front, while I helped Clint to gun (or arrow) them all down. Just because SHIELD has a flair for dramatics.

 

I crept around to the back of the group, before lying down in the snow and slipping the rifle case from my back, clicking the parts together almost soundlessly and loading it, giving a soft affirmative to my teammates. 

 

A cold voice echoed out across the frozen wastelands, and the convoy (?) erupted into chaos, men scrambling for guns. Two or three just bolted, trying to sprint through the nearly waist-deep snow on the sides of the track and not making much headway.

 

I tightened one last bolt and stepped up fluidly, swinging the weapon to coldly ( _ very  _ coldly, given the temperature) fill the deserters with lead. The screams intensified as they realised that I was there as well. Clint told me afterwards that the flat, dangerous look didn’t fade from my eyes for hours afterwards. 

 

One man fell, scream turned abruptly to a gurgle, as a black-feathered arrow lodged itself in his jugular. I heard Clint muttering about how his ‘chicken screeching’ was giving him a headache.

 

The blood bounced on the snow, I noticed with a sort of detached fascination, landing almost metres away from where it started and turning the blue-white snow all shades of brown and crimson.

 

I kept firing through the crowd, hitting target after target until it was only Nat left standing in front of me. She gave a small, feral smile and holstered her smoking pistol (because she is way too cool for a rifle, of course), before turning to walk back to the rendezvous, combat boots leaving deep imprints in the bloodied snow.

 

We left the bodies for the wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading. we're not sure when the next chapter will be published because our live are going to be hell over the next couple of months, but yeah... a word of warning, just in case, if we somehow don't update before the summer - i'm in europe and my co-writer's in vietnam, and neither of us will have wifi.


	10. 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We hope that Budapest and Thor make up for this really short chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooh! We're back and posting. So, Endgame was an adventure that was absolutely traumatising, but it did have a lot of good material for us. But, because of how we're looping through the films, thsi will remain a spoiler free zone for the next few months (if not longer).
> 
> Enjoy!

**\- 2016**

 

By April 2016, SHIELD had finally come to the conclusion that we worked best as a three after countless successful missions like that one in darkest Tajikistan. They called us Strike Team Delta, for reasons best known to themselves. We did hundreds of missions (Not sure if I’m exaggerating or not, it all blurred together and we never got a break except for injuries anyway) in Egypt, Ecuador, Kazakhstan, Liechtenstein (for some reason) and also back in the US, actually, most of them were in the back in the states. But the worst mission we ever had was our last as a team, as it always is. It was in Hungary, Budapest to be precise. I quite liked that area (by which I mean the countries that were relatively nearby, by which… Screw it, I mean Europe in general. It’s just all so tiny there! And old!), so it was a shame, really, that the whole fiasco was pretty much my fault for existing in the first place. 

 

It started off with a botched job of trying to blow up some communist extremists that had a warehouse just outside the city outskirts (once again, why is it always warehouses?). By ‘botched’, I mean that the three of us ended up lying on our backs whilst covered in soot and surrounded by a group of pissed-off and decidedly  _ not  _ blown-up communists. 

 

To be fair to us, it was a large group and we  _ did  _ blow up at least half of them before the fight got really messy. 

 

We emerged victorious, but very bruised and more than a little bloody. Nat was most upset about the fact that her favourite knife had been nicked on someone’s tooth, I think. I didn’t really want to think about it, especially given that my entire left leg looked a little like it had gone through a mincer. Fortunately, it looked worse than it was, which to be fair wasn’t difficult. 

 

It was then of course that we didn’t see the final one of our opponents; only noticing him when a patch of scarlet bloomed across Clint’s stomach. He frowned down at the blood almost disbelievingly before nearly collapsing in on himself, saved by my arms and Natasha shooting the final communist who let go of the knife that he’d half pulled out of Clint’s body.

 

Something just snapped. Sure, I’ve been angry before. Livid, even. But all of that was a toddler’s tantrum compared to the pure, unadulterated  _ rage  _ that course through my veins in that moment. Fury not only at the enemy, but at myself for not noticing the threat. At all three of us, for worrying about my leg and neglecting to check properly, for getting cocky in our successes.

 

I didn’t even hear Nat telling me that he’d live if we stopped the bleeding, that the knife had hit a rib and not Clint’s vital organs. 

 

I couldn’t hear anything except the blood roaring in my ears. I could suddenly smell salt on the air, bitterly strong. 

 

Something moved in the debris and my gut, and any control that I’d previously had abruptly shattered. 

 

I lifted my gun without thinking about it, but the one surviving wall that the guy was hiding behind collapsed with the force of a huge earth tremor before I could fire off a shot. The shock rippled through my suddenly exhausted body, even as twin pairs of scarlet eyes emerged from the smoke, and these huge great  _ dogs  _ prowled towards me. 

 

Dogs that were apparently impervious to bullets. ‘That’s not good.’ my brain helpfully supplied in the sudden, numbing absence of my rage. Thanks, brain. Always the voice of wisdom.

 

I sighed in relief as I saw that Nat had dragged Clint away from the path of the dogs and it was only me that would be killed in the trampling.

 

My gun clicked empty. I holstered it contemptuously. Fat lot of good it’d done me. I thought that I’d feel furious at the injustice, but I didn’t. I just felt wrung out, hollow, drawing my knife on training and instinct instead of a conscious decision.

 

I blinked slowly, letting the sounds wash over me for the last time. I could hear Clint’s laboured breathing and Nat swearing softly but vehemently in Russian. There were sirens in the distance, probably attracted by the greasy black smoke that was climbing towards the sky from the burnt-out shell of the warehouse that we’d exploded. The dogs slathered and growled low in their enormous throats, baring teeth about three times the length of my SHIELD-issue knife that suddenly felt very puny in my hands. 

 

Some animal instinct told me that it would be about as effective as the bullets that I’d fired, and I was shockingly okay with that. Clint gave a hoarse shout as he turned from my own small problem of bleeding out onto the floor to see me, staring down the beasts, even as they pounced at the same time, sending me flying and knocking the wind from me. I drove the knife forwards, but it passed harmlessly through the monster’s face and clattered uselessly to the ground. 

 

I grimaced as I covered my head and waited for my painful death, but before the beasts could dig their teeth into my throat I heard a crashing of water, like a wave at the beach. There was salt crystallising at the base of my nose and my breath misted in front of me, like a sea fog.

 

The monstrous dogs were torn from my chest by the enormous wave, which dissipated as abruptly as it arrived. 

 

Darkness encroached on my vision, and I welcomed it gladly to replace the sticky numbness on my slightly clawed-up chest. 

 

There was a shout in the distance, but I let myself drown in the dark that lapped at the edge of my sight like gentle waves against a boat. 

 

oO0Oo 

 

I woke to a pounding headache and the almost airless whoosh of wind against the windows of the supersonic jet. There were crude field bandages binding my chest and leg, but by far the worst thing was the crushing, numbing exhaustion that dogged my leaden limbs. I took a breath and instantly regretted it as the pungent smell of garbage washed over me.

 

“He lives!” crowed an all-too-familiar voice, clearly slightly hyper on his painkillers (even ibuprofen seemed to send him a little loopy, so it wasn’t surprising). 

 

“Morning.” I grinned weakly. 

 

Nat frowned down at me from above. “It’s 6:30 pm.” 

 

I shrugged. “As I said, morning.” I attempted to sit up, but as I winced I realised that it really wasn’t the best idea. There were some definitely cracked, possibly broken, ribs in there somewhere. “What happened?” 

 

“You were mown down by two garbage trucks,” Nat said flatly. “Driven by the last of those imbeciles, we think. You tried to attack a  _ truck  _ with a  _ knife _ .” 

 

I wrinkled my brow a little. Clint, too, looked confused, but both him and I had been injured, so Nat must be right, right? It would explain why the bullets were ineffective. 

 

I decided to go along with it. “When you say it that way, it sounds really stupid. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t finished. Then, a water main burst and now we’re all covered in sewage, which explains the smell.”

 

“See,  _ not  _ me!” Clint chipped in, helpful as always.

 

I offered up a feeble expression. “At least they’re dead?”

 

Nat frowned, but said nothing else.

 

o0O0o

 

As soon as we got back to our living quarters, Clint burst out, “I saw two fucking humongous dogs and I don’t think that was just me going crazy with blood loss, okay.”

 

“Okay,” I said, “I believe you.” 

 

Clint pursed his lips, deflating a little. “Okay?” 

 

I nodded. “It’s also what I saw. Also these are clearly claw marks,” I gestured to my chest, “not some sort of truck or bulldozer or whatever.” 

 

“So, how the fuck did Natasha see two fucking garbage trucks plough you down?” Clint plonked himself down on the bed. “Seriously, how?” 

 

I gave a tiny shrug. “I dunno. She was the least ill of all of us.”

 

“Maybe it was the Mandela effect? A glitch in the mainframe?” 

 

I snorted. “You’ve been watching too many conspiracy videos on YouTube.”

 

He stared at me. “What else could it be?” 

 

I shrugged in confusion “I don’t know, but definitely not one of those. Hallucination? Though whether on her part or ours...?”

 

Clint snorted. “Nat probably doesn’t hallucinate. Trust me, I’ve seen her blackout drunk. And I don’t think even my worst nightmares could create things like that.”

 

I flopped over onto my bed and groaned into my pillow. “Why can’t things just be slightly fucking normal?”

 

Clint gave his sort of signature harsh, barking laugh that meant that whatever he was laughing at wasn’t actually funny at all. “You’re a spy for one of the biggest companies in the USA and kill people for a living. What is normal for us?”

 

o0O0o

 

It wasn’t much after that hell-hole of a mission that we got called down to New Mexico to look at a  _ hammer _ of all things. The three of us stood around the impact crater. “How the  _ fuck _ did that make that a big a hole?” Clint gestured angrily with the hand that didn’t have his bow in it. I stepped slightly to the side to avoid being smacked with the waving appendage. 

 

“It is quite peculiar, isn’t it?” 

 

I was the only one of the three of us that jumped when Coulson spoke, distracted by the sight of strange engravings on it, by the looks of things. Whatever they were, they gave me the chills. 

 

“It has a completely foreign alphabet; we’re pulling in ASNAC scholars from Cambridge tomorrow to see if they can help us.” 

 

“ASNAC?” Clint asked, the question lighting his eyes up.

 

“Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic. They’re being flown in as quickly as they can, but we need to clear their emergency visas.” 

 

My eyebrows rose. “Cambridge? Like England Cambridge, not Harvard Cambridge?” 

 

“Yes, that’s the one.” Coulson stuck his hands in his suit pockets - a nervous tick I had begun to notice. “We think that it might be a localised version of the Elder Futhark, but we aren’t sure enough to even have that as an assumption.”

 

“The what?”

 

“Elder Futhark - it’s the Old Norse alphabet.” Natasha rolled her eyes, as if it was common knowledge. Oh yeah, of course  _ I  _ was meant to know that.

 

“Cool, so they’re going to translate it and hope that it’ll explain how it made such a huge hole? Because I’d say it’d have to have fallen from a  _ really  _ long way up, or be way heavier than it looks. By  _ a long way _ , I mean pretty much from space. What’s up there that could have a  _ hammer _ ?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Coulson pursed his lips, “but none of us could lift it.” 

 

Well, shit.

 

“We’re just hoping that its owner will show up and try to collect it.” Coulson shot us one of rare smiles, hinting that he did in fact have a sense of humour, not that the whole of Accounting would believe me when I told them about it afterwards

 

“That’s the plan? Hope that some weird-ass superhuman or something turns up? When nobody here could lift it?” 

 

“Well, it was made for somebody. Someone must be able to lift it. How else could it have got here?”

 

Coulson shrugged. 

 

This was naturally when the intruder alarm went off. Because our lives  _ totally  _ go to plan. Phil cursed before looking at his phone and running upstairs to wherever the fancy senior agents lived. Clint and I, on the other hand, locked eyes and both of us reached for our individual weapons of choice: my gun, and Clint’s compound bow. Like we ever went anywhere unarmed anyway.

 

We sprinted up towards the crane that reached over the crater; Clint balanced on the very tip of it, me a few steps behind and definitely in a safer position. “Come on, sir. Give the word and we’ll shoot.” I muttered into my comms set, crouching and peering through my rifle scope, pressing it firmly into my shoulder. Clint raised his bow, but didn’t draw.

 

“Not yet,” Coulson replied. “Wait until he’s in full view. Wait, wait.” A head of blond hair entered into the enclosure around the hammer. He reached towards the hammer, clearly desperate to get a hold of it. “Barton, Jackson,” Coulson’s voice crackle through the intercom, “hold your fire.” My finger twitched on the trigger, but I stayed exactly where I was.

 

The blond guy’s hand encircled the grip as he pulled upwards. I heard the telltale creak of Clint drawing his bow. I tensed, ready to shoot.

 

And then there was just screaming as the guy failed to lift it up. What the fuck? “Stand down,” Coulson said. “Show’s over. Move in on the target.” He was clearly talking to the ground agents as I was very clearly not jumping off of that fucking crane to apprehend him. 

 

Clint chucked me his bow, which I caught with one hand and a slightly bewildered expression. I then most certainly did not let out a small and rather undignified squeak as he hopped off the ledge and proceeded to piss about on the underside of the crane, demonstrating an _ extraordinary _ level of maturity.

  
_ He _ enjoyed it at the time, but I enjoyed the dressing-down he got from Coulson when his feet hit solid ground (after parkouring down the entirety of the crane instead of taking the stairs like an actual human being).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you did/didn't enjoy this very short chapter


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